


In Time's Flow

by Agranulocytosis



Series: In Time's Flow [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: AU Elements and Other Oddities, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Time Loop, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2020-08-13 13:17:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 101,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20174887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agranulocytosis/pseuds/Agranulocytosis
Summary: [Spoilers for all routes]Sothis made a mistake, for mortal hands could not wield the powers of a Goddess. Byleth stands alone, stagnant against the inexorable march of time, doomed to fail again and again. All he needs, however, is a single success.





	1. Memento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> Too much of a sucker for fix-fics, so I wrote this up while waiting for all the other time travel fics to update. Haven't written anything in years, so hopefully this won't go too terribly.
> 
> Been playing too much Fire Emblem: Three Houses. So far, I’ve finished the Black Eagle and Golden Deer routes, then looked up spoilers for the other two. This is what I imagine a NG+++ (ad infinitum) story would read like. 
> 
> Warning: Massive spoilers for all routes of Three Houses right from this chapter. You have been warned.

“Eyes in front, prisoner.”

Byleth sighed deeply as the two Knights of Seiros flanking him on either side harshly grabbed hold of his arms, a third keeping his sword placed level under his chin. Any false move, any attempt at a final rush for freedom, and he’d be dead before he knew it.

So they said, anyway. Byleth knew better. Death from a puncture wound anywhere in the neck often came slowly. Without severance of the spinal column, exsanguination or asphyxiation were excruciating ways to die.

He allowed his hands to be bound tightly behind him. Then, for good measure, his feet were bound as well, despite him already being handily restrained by knights on either side. When _that_ was done, he was patted down once more and subjected to a search of his oral cavity, despite that process already having been carried out several times. Only then was the gate to his cell opened, and he felt himself being hoisted into the air by hands gripping tightly onto his shoulders.

“I hope you’re ready for the Goddess’ punishment, monster. Those were some of my friends you killed,” one knight spat vehemently.

_Trust me, I am._

Bound as his feet were, he couldn’t keep in step with the full contingent of Knights and Priests of Seiros, stumbling several times as they marched through the dark hallways of Garreg Mach Monastery. Sights he’d seen many times over, sights he would see again.

He didn’t even flinch as shadowed corridors turned into brightly lit ones. He barely needed a second to adjust to the sudden, drastic change in light. Any hesitation of that sort he once might have experienced had long since been rid from him.

An Assassin could hardly function if such petty things as day or night managed to hinder him, after all.

All along the path, a massive crowd larger than any he’d seen in the monastery before had gathered to witness what was to come this day. Knights kept them a good distance away, not trusting that any one of them wouldn’t make an attempt to free him. Perhaps they were afraid that he could still somehow make his way to freedom by blending in with the crowd. Doubtful; even he had his limits, bound by thick cords as he was.

“Monster!”

“Demon!”

“May the Goddess punish your wicked sins!”

He took their heckling stoically. This really wasn’t anything new.

There were some among the crowd that he recognised. How could he not? He could pick out his former students easily. One had to learn how to do that amid the chaos of a battlefield, after all.

Ignatz and Raphael looked uncertain and hesitant, mixed together with some semblance of disbelief. Hadn’t they already had more than half a month to get over those emotions? Leonie glared at him fiercely, as though fighting the urge to run him through with her lance. By her side stood his own father, looking vulnerable and helpless for the first time. An unspoken question was clear on his face.

_Why?_

_I’m sorry,_ he tried his best to convey, his movements restrained as they were. Jeralt was someone dear to him, someone he’d shed tears for, despite all that he had endured over the past years.

The procession moved uncaring of the wishes of the crowd. Soon, the rough stone beneath his feet gave way to damp grass, and then to the fine ceramic of the monastery’s large courtyard. He was ushered onto a platform, weapons trained on him all the while, before yet more knights came to further limit his movements. There was almost definitely no means of escape now, unless Sothis saw fit to provide divine providence wherever she was.

He eyed the crowd once more. Rhea sat at the very front of the assembly, her face giving no clues as to what she was thinking or feeling. She was usually more impassioned at times like these, but he supposed that one didn’t live more than a thousand years without being able to steel her emotions at will. By her side was Seteth. Unlike the archbishop, there was no mistaking the anger conveyed by his facial expressions.

The leaders of all three houses were in attendance just behind. Lady Edelgard, not yet an emperor, with Hubert by her side as she looked calculatingly at Byleth. Very much like her to be pragmatic at a time like this. She was probably thinking about how she would need to adapt her future plans.

Dimitri sat alongside Dedue, the prince making his hostility plain on his face. It wasn’t the crazed desire for vengeance he’d seen at times of bloodlust on the battlefield; no, this was more the righteous anger on behalf of the lives that Byleth had taken. It was more in line with the beloved prince of Faerghus than the vengeful king haunted by past ghosts that he would become.

Claude sat as a representative of the Leicester Alliance, a smattering of Alliance lords gathered just behind him. Byleth recognised Count Glouster and Lady Judith of Daphnel from his past dealings with them. Unlike those from the Adrestian Empire and the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, the emotions of the Alliance leaders were more muted, likely because his actions hadn’t been directly targeting them.

The nobles among his students were present within their respective factions by the side of the leaders of their Houses. It was almost funny. The descendants of all of the Ten Elites gathered together in Garreg Mach, their collective animosity directed solely toward him. The idea of a meeting between all these great Houses that didn’t involve a massacre of any sort was mind-boggling.

Compared to the fires of war that had ravaged the monastery many times before, this was very much a welcome sight.

Rhea raised a single hand as she stood, and as one the crowd fell into a reverent silence. He saw Edelgard’s eyes narrow just fractionally, something that anyone could have missed had they not known her disdain for the church and the established order as he did.

“Byleth Eisner,” she began. “Son of Jeralt Eisner, recently returned to the Knights of Seiros. I trust that you know why we have been gathered today?”

No sense waiting things out. “I –“ his voice cracked slightly from disuse. When was the last time he’d even talked?

“I do.”

Rhea nodded regally. “We are gathered here, on this fifteenth day of the Blue Sea Moon in the Imperial Year 1180 to pass judgment for crimes committed against the Adrestian Empire, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, and the Church of Seiros.”

Had it only been four months? He worked faster than he had expected. Still, that was a remarkably short time he’d lived.

She gave some time for the shouts to settle before continuing. “You have been charged with the murders of Lord Volkhard von Arundel and Count Bergliez of the Adrestian Empire. Do you deny these claims?”

Byleth didn’t know exactly who Arundel was in his true identity, but there were enough clues pointing toward him being one of those of the ancient Agarthan civilisation in Shambhala, perhaps even their leader. Hubert had coined the term ‘Those Who Slither in the Dark’ when referring to them, but that was too much of a mouthful for Byleth’s tastes. Bergliez had been targeted for his future contribution to the war in his position as Minister for Military Affairs.

“I do not.”

“You have been charged with the murder of the mage Cornelia in service to the royal family of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Do you deny this claim?”

Cornelia’s involvement always tore the Kingdom apart in her coup. It didn’t matter whether or not she chose to side with or against the Empire; the fractured Kingdom couldn’t withstand an internal struggle alongside Empire incursions. She had to go.

Besides, killing her was always something he hadn’t been necessarily bothered about, after all that she had done – would do – (would have done?) to Dimitri and the Kingdom. Her association with the Agarthans further sealed the deal.

“I do not.”

“You have been charged with the murders of the librarian Tomas and the instructor Jeritza in the employ of the Church of Seiros. Do you deny these claims?”

He was even less conflicted about those, knowing with certainty that they _were_ both aligned with those of Shambhala. Solon and the Death Knight had been responsible for the deaths of many of his students and his father. He’d tried reasoning with the Death Knight, once, out of respect for Mercedes. He didn’t bother attempting that again in all his lives since. That death was one he wouldn’t forget quickly.

For the lives they’d taken many times over, killing them had almost been a pleasure. A knife in the back when their attention was divided, and then ten more for good measure. He wasn’t foolish enough to attempt fighting them face-to-face; for all that Byleth was skilled, the Death Knight still usually managed to put up a reasonable fight in a fair battle. In any other scenario, someone of his age would have been hailed as a prodigy.

“I do not.”

“Let it be known that the prisoner Byleth Eisner has pled guilty for all his crimes,” Rhea declared. “For the assassinations of the foremost eminent lords of Fódlan and respected members of the Church of Seiros, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

No surprise, really. Even if that hadn’t been clear to him over the past few weeks of confinement, the executioner holding the giant axe by his side was a dead giveaway to this sham trial.

They didn’t really need to hold one, given that he’d carelessly been caught by Ingrid right after his assassination of Jeritza, his blade and tunic still bloodied. Skilled though he may be in most manners of combat, even he couldn’t singlehandedly take on an entire troop of knights led by Catherine, Gilbert, Alois and Shamir.

He could have escaped, of course, but that would require silencing his dear student. Even after all these years, he still hesitated to kill one of his students outside of a battlefield, and even then, capture or forcing a retreat or surrender were preferable options. He knew just how much dying _hurt_.

There were shouts of approval from those assembled, cries for the Goddess’ divine punishment. He saw his father looking stunned, a few tears visibly streaking from his eyes even from where he was on the executioner’s block. It mirrored the events from lifetimes ago, the first time that Byleth had ever seen his father die, murdered by the true enemies lurking beneath Fódlan.

“Do you have any last words?”

What could he say? How could he possibly explain Arundel’s involvement within the secret organisation that had existed for millennia in Shambhala? How could anyone believe the grandiose tale of their true capabilities, of javelins of light capable of destroying even the most fortified of cities? Why would anyone believe him if he spoke of Edelgard’s goals, of the inevitable war to come? Of Cornelia and the coup that he had prevented?

They never believed him in the past, and they never will. He had stopped trying seriously a long time ago.

Rhea had believed him to be one of the Agarthans, even when he brought up facts and secrets that only someone she had personally disclosed them to could know. The Agarthans had been around for a long time, and were the ones originally responsible for the twisted use of Crest Stones, after all. For all her strengths, Rhea had always been somewhat paranoid, quick to anger and overly reliant on a show of force to settle any dispute. Likewise, Dimitri had brushed aside his concerns regarding Edelgard, and Claude had retained Alliance neutrality.

It was not until Fódlan became ravaged by war that anyone would come to realise the truth of his words, but by then it had always been too late. Everyone lost, in the end.

With the cursed existence that had been placed onto him under the guise of a gifted power from the Goddess, he’d never been able to directly influence the early days of the war. Like many other things, the five year gap was an absolute fact of each lifetime he’d experienced, even if he chose not to take part in any of the business that crippled Fódlan.

That one time he tried to break away from it all, to live a simple life in a remote village, he’d simply fallen asleep one day and woken up the next just before the Millennium Festival years later. War came to his village soon after, and he fell fighting both Empire and Kingdom forces. Moments later, he was back where it all started.

It was a mystery as to why that was an inviolable fact amid all the other shifting variables between his lives. Something must have had gone wrong during their merger, because the Divine Pulse had never worked as it did before, all those years ago. All of established Reason and Faith theory had no explanation for such phenomena, despite him probably being in the same league as top scholars of the field. He had plenty of time to hone his skills.

He hoped that this time, with the key players of the Agarthan faction crippled and Bergliez unable to take charge of the Empire military, Edelgard wouldn’t have the military force she needed to launch her assault on Garreg Mach. Without Cornelia in the picture, when the war did come, the Kingdom should be better prepared to stop it.

With the scales of the balance of power between the two major military forces of the conflict favouring neither side, that would hopefully be sufficient to reduce the impact to Fódlan and minimise casualties. He had no doubt that some Agarthans remained in Shambhala, but with their leaders taken out they _should _be more reserved in the use of their full destructive capabilities. Perhaps Sothis would see fit to let him rest at long last.

Then again, he had no idea exactly what Sothis wanted, why he had been cursed to relive the certainty of these events no matter what he tried. Ever since his first pass at life, her voice had turned silent. Was the reason for her gifted power’s unsolicited activation in order to preserve the lives of his students, to prevent the war from starting, to bring about peace to Fódlan or some other purpose entirely?

Rhea accepted his silence as an answer. He looked at her directly in the eyes as she gave the order.

“Do it.”

The swinging of an axe, a brief spike of pain that quickly turned numb – a merciful death, better than many he’d experienced – and then…

…nothingness.

Just as it had been.

Just as it always will be.

Slowly, the dark veil gave way to vibrant colours, a sight that he’d seen many times over. So, this attempt hadn’t worked either, then.

He would have sighed, but he didn’t have a mouth at present. Nor did he have the energy for it, really.

All the lives he’d lived, and nothing to show for it. The war always happened, one faction would win, but ultimately the Agarthans always emerged the final victors. Whether it was through their weapons of light or the army of a revived King of Liberation, it didn’t matter. In the occasions where Byleth lived to see it through to the end, all of Fódlan would lose. It was a circle without beginning and end – Byleth would die, and Byleth would live again.

The first few times had been exciting, novel. After his first life spent teaching the Golden Deer house, he had made countless attempts rotating between all the other major powers. He had come up with plan after plan, distinct variations that dramatically changed the outcome of the war. He had experienced entire lifetimes spent fighting alongside the Empire, the Kingdom, the Alliance and the Church, and then several more where he’d struck off independently.

The only faction he hadn’t worked with was the Agarthans, if only because they would probably desire nothing more than to study the Crest Stone and whatever other mysterious power Sothis had gifted him. It was a pity; information from working with them would be priceless. As it was, after the many repeats he’d gone through, each subsequent life barely gave him any new information.

Yet, there was still so much unknown to him, so many secrets held close to the hearts of all the major players, muddled by misinformation perpetuated by each faction. Edelgard and Rhea had presented vastly different accounts of Crests, the Goddess, the Church and Nemesis. The truth behind the Tragedy of Duscur was still unclear despite hearing the accounts of Edelgard, Dimitri, and even some of the Agarthans. Each party held on to their own set of beliefs, refusing to address their own biases and possibility of false information.

His enthusiasm quickly gave way to apathy after tens to hundreds of attempts he had long since lost count of, as he was forced to see the students that he had taught at one point or another raise arms against one another again, and again, and _again. _There was only so much one could take before realising the reality of his situation. He was trapped, cursed to see Fódlan descend into chaos over and over.

Nowadays, he tended to come up with ideas on the fly, living day by day against the certainty of that which was to come. This time around had been an outlier, an experiment in influencing the political field early on by assassination and subterfuge. It seemed that it wasn’t what Sothis was looking for, given that he would soon find himself back at Remire Village.

The colours shifted into familiar scenes. The Tailtean Plains, Saint Seiros slaying Nemesis. The same plains, more than a thousand years later, as Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg slew King Dimitri Blaiddyd in single combat. In another life, the situation had been reversed, a vengeful king gleefully laughing at the fallen body of his foe as his lance jabbed into her again and again, ignoring the storm of arrows raining down upon him.

Rhea’s voice from his first lifetime, and then many more after that, singing that damned song that had haunted him all these years.

_In time’s flow,_  
_see the glow,_  
_ of flames ever burning bright…_

The Monastery in ruins. Arianrhod and Fort Merceus, left as nothing but craters in the ground as spears of light struck them. Fhirdiad, Enbarr and Derdriu in flames in different lifetimes, the cries of civilians lost amidst the chaos of war. Ashes scattered amidst dying embers in the aftermath of a cruel war. Two armies bearing the Crest of Flames meeting in battle in a small number of lives, one always emerging the victor.

_On the swift_  
_river’s drift,_  
_ broken memories alight…_

The broken, bloodied bodies of his students. Ferdinand, brought down by arrows and magic where he stood unwavering from the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Ashe, his body smaller in death than he’d been in life, as he lay unmoving on the boiling stones of Ailell. Marianne, slain by one of Edelgard’s knights as she tried to evacuate civilians from Derdriu during the Empire’s assault.

Metal and stone collapsing all around him as the massive underground city of Shambhala was brought down by the Agarthan leader’s final act of defiance. The Empire, Kingdom and Alliance forces looking skyward in the Gronder Fields where a parley had been called, as javelins of light rained down from the heavens onto all three armies in that one lifetime where a true possibility of peace had been just within their grasp. War-torn worlds flying banners of Adrestian black, Faerghus blue or Leicester yellow, unable to withstand Nemesis’ return in the wake of a war that had crippled all of Fódlan.

More images and memories flashed by, some he lived through and some he hadn’t.

The final remains of a goddess stolen.

The Red Canyon massacre.

The scorching of Ailell.

A Saint’s act of sacrilege.

A dimension of darkness.

An empty throne.

And then –

\- a room he’d seen tens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of times before. The sound of hurried footsteps as Jeralt made his way up the stairs, the creaking of a door a moment later.

He got up to his feet, catching a brief look of himself in the mirror as he turned his head. His body was smaller and scrawnier than it had been nary minutes ago, a constant in all the lives he lived. He may have had past experiences as a War Master, Dark Knight, Wyvern Lord or just about every defined Class that had categorically existed, but skill was pointless without the power to back it up. As always, he would need to train.

Then again, overwhelming power was never the answer. That one desperate life where he’d trained till his mind and body had figuratively been broken, he’d still fallen against the Death Knight, Solon, Kronya and their enigmatic leader when the time came. It took several lifetimes to recover from the ordeal he had put himself up to.

His hair was the dark blue it had always been. The mint green that so mimicked Rhea and the other Children of the Goddess had been present for only his first lifetime, disappearing upon his first death, another mystery that he had no answers for.

“Hey, time to wake -” his father paused mid-sentence. “Oh. You’re already awake.”

He stretched lightly as he got used to his past body once again. Thankfully, with his last life only lasting four months, the differences weren’t particularly jarring. Small mercies.

_Here we go again._


	2. Source

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Source: n. the beginning or place of origin of a stream or river;  
n. any thing or place from which something comes, arises, or is obtained; origin

Things were always different between each life right from the moment when he appeared in his old room back in Remire Village. Sure, some events may be absolute, but unfathomably more could never be predicted. He’d been caught in the middle of this cruel game between time, fate or whatever divine power cursed him to this existence for long enough to know that by now.

Sometimes, Jeralt would notice something subtly different with his son, and from there he’d either accept a hasty explanation detailing the aftermath of some bad dreams or pester him to no end about them. In other lives, Byleth’s father would be unaware of the changes he had gone through simultaneously overnight and over decades to centuries of broken lives.

“You look different.”

Ah. This life was shaping up to be one of the former, then.

Jeralt stepped forward, studying his son closely. “Bad dreams again?” he asked.

“The battlefield,” he said simply, thankful for the easy excuse. It was a tried and tested one; his father would take it at face value whenever he offered the suggestion.

“Not the girl?”

“She didn’t appear this time.” _Nor will she ever again._

“Good,” he said, then sighed. “I’ve already told you this many times before, but put that out of your mind for now. As mercenaries, we can’t afford any distractions. We need to get going for our next job in the Kingdom tomorrow.”

Byleth resisted the urge to smile at the humour of the situation. No matter how many times he’d died, they would never actually get to that job. Alois made sure of that. He knew precisely how persistent the veteran knight could be through all the lives that they fought side by side as comrades.

“Right.”

_Should be right about now…_

On cue, there was the clanging of metal as one of Jeralt’s mercenaries appeared in the doorway.

“Jeralt! Sir! Sorry to barge in, but your presence is needed,” he said, words punctuated by rapid panting.

“Hmm?”

“There’s a group of students – Garreg Mach – saying they’re being chased by bandits,” he continued, fighting to regain his breath.

Byleth eyed the weaponry by his bedside. Nothing fancy, only the old iron sword, a simple set of bow and arrows and a few concealed daggers. Not quite the Heroes Relics he would come to wield eventually, but these bandits weren’t anything like the threats he’d faced before. He secured his chosen weapons to his person while his father got a sense of the situation, not bothering to listen further to the mercenary’s report.

“You got all that?”

“Hmm?” Byleth turned to face his father, adjusting a final dagger in his boot. It was an old habit from ages ago that had bought more time to his lives many times over. “Yeah. We’re fighting the bandits?”

“You’re eager today.” Jeralt nodded approvingly as Byleth finished readying up. “Take us to them,” he addressed the mercenary.

Remire Village was always a refreshing sight at the beginning of each restart. Even dark as it was in the early hours of the morning, it looked nothing like how it would become after Solon’s attack on the village and his blood experiments that would drive the villagers mad. No fires licking the walls of buildings, no screams for aid or the clashing of metal; just a sense of calm that even the impending bandit attack couldn’t drive away.

Jeralt was focused on the task at hand. Byleth was thankful for that, it gave him some time to adjust back to his past life and take stock of changes that hadn’t been made. Far too many times, he had accidentally said something or talked to someone he shouldn’t have. _Cornelia, Arundel, Bergliez, Solon and the Death Knight are still alive. I’ve never met the students. No one knows about Sothis._

In no time, they were led to the village square, where the three house leaders had been set to wait. Edelgard and Dimitri had been on their feet the whole time, while Claude lazily rose to stand, dexterously readying his bow in his hand.

They looked nothing like how they would be in the future, not even how they had been in his previous life barely four months from this moment. There were traces of Edelgard’s grim determination and Dimitri’s battle craze, but they were almost entirely masked by charming and honest smiles. Claude was more like his future self with a smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes, one that Byleth knew meant that he was carefully evaluating the approaching duo and coming up with possible ways of dealing with any threat that they posed.

He could never bear to kill his students in cold blood right there and then, despite knowing what the future would hold. Even on the battlefield, it was with a heavy heart that he struck a final mercy blow to end the lives of his students when left without any other conceivable option.

Of course, that courtesy was extended only to his students. Multiple lifetimes of war tended to dull any affect one might have felt at taking another person’s life.

Besides, killing them wouldn’t accomplish much. He knew that as a fact from the life where he’d led Jeralt away from the village on the pretence of some urgent matter in the few minutes he had before the mercenary arrived with his report. In a past life, Edelgard had revealed that she had been responsible for all of this from the very start. With a heavy heart, he allowed her plan to come into fruition, telling himself that the deaths of his students in that one life would save them in another.

Edelgard had planned to use the bandits to kill off the leaders of the other houses and suffer only grievous injuries herself to weaken the power of the Kingdom and Alliance, and to possibly undermine the Church’s position in failing to protect its students. It didn’t work; their deaths had only later fuelled the fires of war, with the two beloved rulers cut down before their time being raised as martyrs to rally the commonfolk once her deeds came to light.

No, he couldn’t dwell on that line of thought. The long years had taught him that following the infinite number of ‘what-if’s would lead to an infinite number of outcomes, each with an infinitesimally small probability of occurring.

Jeralt took charge of the talking. “You’re the students from Garreg Mach?”

“Yes. Please forgive our intrusion. We wouldn’t ask for aid if the situation wasn’t dire,” Dimitri said. “We’re being pursued by bandits. I can only hope that you will be so kind as to lend your support.”

Claude nodded in confirmation. “We’ve been separated from our companions and are outnumbered. They’re after our lives… and our gold.”

All things considered, it was a fairly normal beginning to this life. His choices from here on would affect things to come. His fancy and elaborate plans the last time around hadn’t worked. Perhaps it was time to adapt on the fly once again.

_What to do, what to do…_

“Sir! Bandits spotted just outside the village!”

Well, no more time to dwell on it. He could see the students tensing up, gripping their weapons just slightly harder. They had some prior experience in battle before this, of course, but they were nowhere close to being accustomed to the idea of a true battlefield to the point where they could just shrug it off.

“Byleth, you’re taking lead on this,” his father ordered. “Common bandits shouldn’t be much trouble for you.”

He nodded. Jeralt always wanted to test his abilities in this battle. He didn’t quite remember just what he was capable of in his first life, but in every subsequent life he managed to impress his father no matter how much he tried to tone down his skills, except in the rare scenario where he opted to do absolutely zero work. Eventually, he gave up and fought with what felt most natural to him.

“You two, with me,” he addressed Edelgard and Dimitri, before turning to Claude. “Stay in the tree line, provide cover fire.”

“You’re a man of few words, aren’t you?” Claude asked cheerfully, nocking an arrow onto his bowstring. Under Byleth’s intense glare, he finally relented. “Fine, fine. You’re not amused. Got it.”

“_Please _stay on task, Claude,” Dimitri sighed.

“Do I ever not?”

Byleth wanted to answer in the affirmative, but he knew that was factually untrue. Humour was his way of disarming an opponent, all the while carefully evaluating a situation.

“Let’s move out,” he said instead. “Stick close.”

“Understood,” Edelgard said.

He stuck along the sides of buildings and trees, hiding beneath their shadows as the group slowly advanced. How many bandits were there? Ten, twenty? They hadn’t really mattered beyond his first life, really. He raised his free hand in a gesture for silence, then pointed out their respective targets. After all this time, it would be shameful if he didn’t know precisely where the bandits were hiding. This was far too early in the timeline for any ripples from the choices he made to have had an effect. Small nods were exchanged.

_Go,_ he gestured, then quickly leapt into the fray.

“HEY –“

His first victim barely managed to give a warning shout before his blade found his heart, followed swiftly by a merciful end as a second swing parted head from torso.

More bandits rushed to engage him, alerted by their comrade’s cry. His students-to-be took the chance to take them by surprise, their respective quarries caught unaware from where they were hiding. Axe, lance and arrows met flesh, disabling but not yet killing them. His students pressed the advantage and engaged their own targets, while Byleth advanced onward.

“I’ll give you one chance to surrender,” he told them as he moved. They didn’t even pause. Very well, then.

Weaker and slower though he was, avoiding the wild strikes of untrained bandits was proving to be no challenge. He dodged all sorts of weaponry with the grace and skill befitting an Assassin of his standing, countering their blows with forceful retaliations that left no further room for riposte. His body might be dulled, but his senses certainly weren’t, allowing him to step aside from arrows or to otherwise throw bodies of their own comrades in the path of flying projectiles.

“It’s the Ashen Demon!” one bandit shouted fearfully, abandoning his axe as he ran off into the forest.

Right, he still had that stupid nickname. Byleth didn’t bother pursuing; these bandits meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Some of them attempted to rally, a pair of bandits flanking him on either side. He heard Dimitri shout a warning cry. Had he already dispatched the one that he’d been facing?

No matter. Something like this could hardly compare to the foes he’d fought during the many wars he’d been in. He blocked an axe from the bandit on his right, diverting the force of his strike aside. His free left hand was raised at the open guard of his other assailant as the bandit prepared to bring his sword down. It was a foolish mistake on his part.

Few people expected a lowly mercenary to be capable of using Black Magic alongside martial combat. Unfortunately for them, he’d been a Mortal Savant in the future-past, along with the certification to prove it. He let magic permeate his body, forming a conduit for the motes of the magical substance to pass into his open hand, then organised them into a matrix that defined the well-established glyph of his chosen spell.

_Sagittae_.

A wave of force projected outward, piercing deep into the flesh of his assailant as the magical projectile entered and exited on both sides of his back and torso. His body was blown back, flying like a ragdoll by the explosive piercing energy of his spell, dead even before he tumbled to hit and roll against the ground multiple times. His comrade, stunned by the display of magic from a swordsman, failed to raise his guard in time before a second strike bisected his torso in the axial plane.

“You can use Black Magic?” Dimitri asked, rushing up by his side. A quick glance revealed some bloodstains on his armour and lance.

He’d killed, then. Thankfully, he still seemed to be in control of his mental faculties.

“A little,” he lied. “Regroup with Claude and work with him. I’m taking out their leader.”

“But –“

He ignored his protests, picking up speed as he cut a path toward the bandit leader. Kostas was his name, if he remembered correctly. Where he could, he would prefer that Dimitri avoided combat as much as possible, at least until Byleth could come up with a plan on dealing with him. There were lifetimes where he’d managed to get through the deep-seated issues plaguing the prince since the Tragedy of Duscur, but war still came in the end without the time he could spare to temper Edelgard’s own mindset.

A bandit that was preparing to fire an arrow grew wide eyes as Byleth closed the distance between them, screaming as he threw his bow aside and dove to one side. He wasn’t even the intended target of his charge. These bandits really were disorganised and untrained.

He figured that he would deal with Kostas the usual way. If he died here and now, the first mission that his class would be sent on would be something entirely unpredictable, varying from life to life. Byleth _hated_ unpredictability where he could avoid it. Massive shake-ups in each life were done only for the sole purpose of attempting to stop the war to come.

With casual ease, he shot off a forceful burst of _Wind_ at one bandit, then rolled beneath a horizontal swing from the massive axe that the bandit leader brandished. As he got up from his roll, he dropped his sword and grabbed the hidden dagger he’d placed in his boot, throwing it into the sole remaining bandit by Kostas’ side. The satisfying mix between a _snikt _and _squish_ probably indicated that the knife flew true and embedded itself through the eye and brain of its intended target, but Byleth wasn’t about to be distracted.

With his position within Kostas’ guard, the bandit couldn’t easily swing his axe. To his credit, he attempted to improvise and strike at Byleth with his free hand, but Byleth’s attack was already prepared. The White Magic spell formed quickly, its constituents completely unlike the Black Magic he’d previously wielded, as a glowing glyph materialised in the small space between the bandit’s torso and his left hand.

_Nosfesratu._

The explosion of light launched the bandit backward, tumbling painfully along roots and soil before finally coming to a stop. He felt slightly invigorated from the vampiric effects of his chosen spell, but he’d barely sustained any damage as it was.

Byleth waited patiently, sword back in his hand. His intention was for Kostas to escape, after all. As the bandit leader stood up, Byleth could visibly see him clearly assessing the situation. Most of his companions had either surrendered, fled or been killed, and the mercenaries and students were about to finish with cleaning up the rest.

“RETREAT!” he ordered, discarding his axe clumsily onto the ground as he made his escape. Byleth let him go.

Turning around, he surveyed his past students as the three worked together to finish off the last remaining bandit. A crippling blow to the knee from the blunt end of Dimitri’s lance, followed by a forceful push from Edelgard to send him sprawling to the ground, allowing him to become captured.

Not killing, then. That bode well.

“You let him go,” Jeralt stated as his horse trotted up to Byleth’s side.

“He’s not worth it.”

“You killed most of the others,” he said pointedly

Byleth shrugged. “They didn’t want to surrender or flee.”

His father looked at him speculatively. No doubt there were some differences in how he conducted himself in battle between his first life and the current one tens to hundreds of lives later, but Byleth could scarcely recall any details of how he had been ages ago.

“You did well,” he said finally. “I didn’t know you were proficient in magic. That was _Sagittae, _wasn’t it?”

It wasn’t a highly ranked or difficult spell, all things considered. Most novices of Black Magic learned to perform it with some study. Byleth _could_ have dropped a _Meteor_ on his targets, but the complexities of the spell would have been wasted with his current body still mostly untrained in magical combat. A simple _Sagittae _was far more effective.

“I dabbled a little between missions,” he lied. Again, the slight hint of disbelief returned, but his father didn’t call him out on it.

He _never_ did. Not at this time, at least.

The three students were making their way toward them now, catching their breath in the aftermath of battle. They looked to be impressed with his abilities, although Claude was showing subtle signs of wariness that he did with any potential threat. It didn’t stop him from plastering a bright smile on his face, though.

It was all in the slightest narrowing of his eyes and smallest of furrows in his eyebrows, and the way that he gripped his bow just a little closer to his person for a rapid draw. Things that might have been easily overlooked, but not by someone who had spent literal _decades_ with the man in question.

“You were impressive out there.” Dimitri let his honesty show, clapping him on the shoulder with his free hand. It was difficult reconciling this person with the ‘boar prince’ that Felix so loved to describe him as, the beast that would be on full display once the war began to kick in. It was for that reason that Byleth had spent the least time with the Blue Lions, unable to bear the sight of repeatedly watching the prince fall to his inner demons, then fight and triumph over them, only for all of it to be reset with each activation of Sothis’ power when the time came at last.

“Indeed,” Edelgard agreed. If she was at all disappointed that the plan she had concocted in the guise of the Flame Emperor had failed, she did well to hide it. “We owe you our thanks.”

Byleth sheathed his blade, now certain that the fight was over. The bandits that still lived were being rounded up in the village, and soon enough Alois would arrive with his contingent of knights.

“It was nothing,” he said.

“It certainly wasn’t nothing!” Claude said brightly, his bow secured onto his back. He probably didn’t consider Byleth as a threat, then. “You took on more of those bandits all by yourself than the three of us combined! The way you fought… you a Mortal Savant or something?”

“No,” he half-lied, but added no further explanation. Technically, he wasn’t certified yet.

“…you going to elaborate on that?” he followed up. Claude would always be Claude, no matter how events changed.

“Not really.”

“Leave him be, Claude,” Dimitri said sternly. “Besides, you know how rare Master classes are.”

It was true, up until the war came. Once that happened, the rapid training and development of soldiers led to a massive increase in the capabilities of all those involved in war.

“Can we get a name, at least?” Claude tried.

“Byleth,” he acquiesced.

“…just Byleth?”

He supposed they would find out eventually. “Byleth Eisner.”

“Eisner?” Claude repeated, then turned toward Jeralt. “Then you must be…”

“Jeralt Eisner. The Blade Breaker,” Edelgard stated.

“They teach you that at Garreg Mach, huh?” Jeralt sighed. “Now that the bandits are gone, why don’t you tell us why you kids are so far out from the monastery?”

“Well –“ Dimitri began, but was cut off almost immediately by an exceedingly familiar voice.

“_The Knights of Seiros are here! We’ll cut you down for terrorising our students!”_

“Oh boy,” Byleth’s father sighed once more. He concurred with that sentiment. Alois could be a little bit of a pain to deal with.

Meanwhile, though, Byleth had to think of a general course of action for his immediate future. First impressions had plenty of influence. It partly contributed to his appointment to the role of professor, although Rhea had merely used Alois' recommendation as an excuse to keep him close by her side in the Church.

Teaching the students of the different houses had failed innumerable times. Siding with the Church when the inevitable assault on Garreg Mach began didn’t make a difference in the long run. Sneaking off at the beginning of a new life as an independent party didn’t give him the sufficient amount of influence he needed to shape the political landscape of Fódlan. Assassination of choice targets had only led to his death earlier, leading to his current life despite a real possibility that war might have been averted.

What else could he try?

Hmm… there was one idea.

A very stupid one, granted, but a new one nonetheless. Besides, it didn’t matter if his gamble didn’t pay off. He had eternity ahead of him.

“Captain Jeralt? Is that you? Goodness, it’s been ages!” Alois’ voice boomed. “Don’t you recognise me? It’s –“

If he wanted his plan to work, now was the time.

“You’re Alois,” Byleth pretended to inhale sharply, as though starstruck by the veteran knight. All that time spent talking to Dorothea and Manuela about their experiences in the Mittlefrank Opera Company wasn’t for show; he wasn’t the same emotionless mask that people used to refer to him as.

Well, maybe he _was_, but he could choose not to be.

“Alois Rengald! You’re a Knight of Seiros!” he finished with as much excitement he could put into his voice. It wasn’t really a lot, but it got the job done. Alois could be very clueless at times.

“Oh?” he turned to regard Byleth. “And who might you be?’

“Byleth Eisner.” He gave the man a second to react.

_Any time now…_

“EISNER?!” he shouted with a voice even louder than it normally was. Byleth had to suppress a wince. “You’re related to captain Jeralt?”

“He’s my father,” Byleth said.

“Byleth –“ his father tried to interrupt.

“Oh. Oh! Oh, hoho!” he began to laugh. “I see you’ve told your son about all of my exploits, captain! You sly dog, you could have praised me yourself!”

“I didn’t –“

“And you!” Alois continued, unheeding of Jeralt’s attempts to regain control of the conversation. For the better, probably, if Byleth wanted this experiment of a life to go the way he planned just minutes ago. “My men reported that someone fought the bandit leader head-on! Was that you?”

Byleth nodded, and Alois’ grin grew wider, moustache twitching all the while. “Excellent work! Just like captain Jeralt, you are! And the marks on the floor and the bodies, that’s Black Magic_,_ isn’t it?”

Alois always was a sharp one despite the image of a fool that people tended to associate with his mannerisms. He wasn’t known as one of the most experienced knights for nothing. Again, Byleth nodded.

“A Mortal Savant in the making!” he praised, probably noticing the sword secured on his belt. “You’ll become like captain Jeralt in no time!”

“I hope so, too,” Byleth said. Was it the time to spring his plan?

“In fact, why don’t you both come to the monastery with me? I’m sure the students would love to talk to you!”

“Alois, I don’t think –“

“Nonsense, captain! I insist, you need to come with us! You’re not going to run away again, are you?”

From the corner of his vision, Byleth could see his father carefully considering the situation, looking thoughtfully at both Alois and his son. The personality change Byleth had put on when talking to Alois had no doubt raised more questions, but he needed to be on Alois’ good side if his plan was to work. He was the one to originally recommend his position as a professor, after all.

“Even I wouldn’t dare to run from the Knights of Seiros,” he finally relented.

“It’s settled then! Come now, students! We’ll return to the monastery at once!”

“Actually, Alois,” Byleth said. “Would it be alright to ask you some questions about your experience as a knight?”

He could practically see the older man’s eyes light up. “I’d love to! Why, I could tell you all about captain Jeralt as well! You see…”

Garreg Mach needed a new teacher, but it didn’t have to be Byleth. Jeralt was an experienced knight as well. Rhea would probably consent to the idea, seeing as Jeralt’s presence meant that her dearest experiment in reviving Sothis would be tied to the monastery. Not that she knew that Sothis had long since disappeared from the time she gifted her power to him lifetimes ago, of course.

He could be in place as a student, a member of the Church, simply a free person roaming the grounds or perhaps attached to Alois as an understudy in the Knights of Seiros. It would give Byleth more freedom to work independently, with the added possibility of spending time working on the issues of students from all three houses. Past attempts at changing the timeline failed because dealing with one faction leader’s issues meant a degree of neglect toward the others. None of them were beyond the ability to reason with, but _time_ was the major limiting factor, as ironic as it sounded to someone functionally immortal like himself. Winning Edelgard’s trust to the point where she’d listen to his counsel meant losing an avenue to help Dimitri. The converse was equally true.

He wasn’t optimistic enough to think that his solution would solve all of Fódlan’s future woes, but hopefully it could delay the inevitability of war. In time, perhaps peace could become a reality, like it had almost been lifetimes ago before the Agarthans made their move at the monumental parley in the Gronder Fields. He’d never been able to replicate that feat again with the shifting variables from life to life.

Besides, interacting with students on a daily basis as their professor was a painful process after all this time. It was difficult to look at the students and not see what they had become, could become and wouldn’t become through the lenses of his past lives; to see people he’d loved and bled for turn into complete strangers overnight again and again.

This was an experiment, something he hadn’t yet tried. Sure, he may have interacted with students of different Houses in the past, but there was always an element of commitment toward one particular house that shaped events to come. Being attached to the monastery but not a House from the very start was going to be a novel experience.

Now, he just needed to find the right way to frame his request. If it didn’t work, well…

…he _did _have more lives he could spend on the issue. It wasn’t too time-consuming, all things considered. He had experimented on shaping events both miniscule and on a large scale beginning from a time deeper into the start of new lives in the past.

-o-o-o-

Most of the time, the journey to Garreg Mach Monastery was spent interacting with the three students. After so many lives with nearly identical conversations that broached similar topics, speaking with Alois was a rather refreshing change. Byleth had no clue why this idea hadn’t crossed his mind before.

“- so that was when I asked the captain if the bandit ‘got the point’!” Alois laughed heartily. “Get it? The ‘_point_’?”

Classic Alois humour. The man never changed.

“I’m guessing you’re referring to the point of a lance?” he said in as dry a tone as he could manage, pointing to the weapon kept by his side. “Ignoring the fact that you’re using an axe.”

Alois shook his head at how his pun was received, but continued to grin widely. “You’re almost exactly like captain Jeralt, aren’t you? You certainly have the same appreciation for my jokes. Looking to lead your own group of mercenaries in the future as well?”

_If I had a future, sure._

“I haven’t really thought that far, yet,” he said honestly.

“Well, keep your options open! If you’re anything like the captain, you’d make an outstanding knight as well!”

Byleth took the opportunity to enact his plan. “How does one become a knight, exactly?”

“Well, it depends on what kind of knight you want to be.” Alois stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “Those serving the Church as Knights of Seiros like your father and I begin our training as squires to established knights, while those of the nobility or in their service undergo teaching in Garreg Mach Monastery.”

“Squiring?” Byleth followed that line of enquiry.

“Interested in becoming a knight, are you?” Alois scrutinised him carefully. “It’s not a difficult process, but…”

He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in closer. “I suppose you’ll find out eventually. I was originally hoping to recommend you to the Archbishop as a professor at the monastery. Our last one ran off when the bandits attacked.”

Byleth feigned surprise at that, even though he’d already known that fact a thousand times over. “Really?”

“Really,” Alois said as he nodded. “You _do_ have the skills needed to teach the students, but if you desire to be a knight, I guess that can’t be helped. Hmm…”

Now was the time for his suggestion. “Couldn’t my father teach the students instead?” he suggested innocently. “I’d be honoured to serve as your squire.”

“WHAT?!” Alois stumbled in mid-step, giving a strangled cough. Behind him, Byleth could hear the conversation between the three students and Jeralt temporarily cease. “You, as my squire?”

“What’s this?” Jeralt interrupted. “Alois, if you’re trying something –“

“I’d be happy to take you as my squire!” Alois declared jovially. “Why, that arrangement would be perfect! I told you that I served as captain Jeralt’s squire a long time ago, didn’t I?”

“You want to become a _Knight_?” his father asked him disbelievingly.

“You never told me that your son wanted to become a Knight of Seiros!” Alois turned to tell Jeralt the details of their arrangement. “It’s perfect! You can take up a position as a professor in the monastery, and I can teach your son all about becoming a knight! I’m sure our students would be happy to learn from you! Isn’t that right, kids?”

At some point, the three students had drawn closer, no doubt wondering what the sudden outburst was about. “A chance to learn from the Blade Breaker himself?” Claude whistled. “Count me in, Teach!”

“It would be an excellent educational opportunity,” Dimitri commented diplomatically, then bowed slightly at Jeralt. “I’d be delighted to learn from someone as skilled as you.”

“Indeed,” Edelgard added.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Jeralt grumbled.

“Oh, come on, Jeralt!” Alois clapped his old friend hard on the shoulder. “The young ones would be so disappointed otherwise! I know you’ve got a soft spot for these kids!”

He made no move to reply. Instead, he eyed Byleth carefully. “You didn’t tell me that you wanted to become a knight.

“You never asked.”

His gaze lingered for a moment more, but Byleth made sure to school his expression carefully. It wasn’t too difficult, considering who he was.

“Fine,” Jeralt finally reluctantly acquiesced. “We’ll be seeing Rhea then, I suppose?”

“_Lady_ Rhea,” Alois corrected disapprovingly. “And yes. I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you again after all these years.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

_Half true. She’d be happier to know that her dearest experiment survived_.

“Anyway, Byleth, we’ll need to sort out the details of our arrangement as well,” Alois informed him. “Lady Rhea – the Archbishop, I’m sure you’re aware – would probably like to meet with the both of you to discuss what will happen. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to take you on as my squire immediately, but I’ll try my best to make the necessary arrangements. In fact, I might be able to request for missions alongside captain Jeralt and his students.”

Byleth wouldn’t complain. It wasn’t like he really _wanted_ to become a knight. This was more an easy excuse to have more freedom in his actions.

“That’s quite alright, sir,” he said. “I’m aware that it might take some time. I’d like to explore the monastery as well, anyway. Besides, I’m not sure if I’m up to par to be a squire just yet.”

“None of that ‘sir’ business!” Alois waved his title away. “Certainly not to the captain’s son! Just call me Alois. And if what my men told me is true, you’re definitely more than skilled enough to become a squire.”

“Forgive me for intruding, but why not become a student at the monastery instead?” Edelgard asked curiously, although Byleth knew that there was a certain agenda in her line of questioning. Was she trying to get him into her House to win his loyalty for the future invasion? “You’ll become a knight after graduation. If age is an issue, there are older students in our classes as well.”

He resisted the urge to snort. They’d probably see his age as an issue if they knew how old he really was.

In fact, how old _was_ he? A hundred years old? Several hundred? He didn’t even remember how old he was biologically speaking, never mind chronologically. Somewhere around twenty?

“I’d rather not be in service to a noble house,” he said instead. “Too much politics for my tastes.”

“Ah, politics. What a shame, depriving the nobility of such a worthy individual,” Claude sighed dramatically.

“I’m sure House Riegan has many other worthy candidates to accept as knights,” Byleth said.

Claude raised an eyebrow in inquiry, and Byleth knew he messed up. Damn it! He’d been far too used to the fact that they’d exchanged introductions by this point in… just about every other timeline, now that he thought about it. Barring the ones where he’d immediately left Remire Village, of course. He couldn’t afford to keep slipping up like that.

“You’ve heard of me?” he asked, then pointed at the other two students. “In that case, I’m sure you’re aware of who these two are as well.”

At least this was easily salvageable. Those three weren’t exactly the most inconspicuous of students.

“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus,” he recited. “Edelgard von Hresvelg, princess and future emperor of the Adrestian Empire. I’d be more surprised if anyone in Fódlan _hasn’t_ heard of the three of you.”

He certainly hadn’t, back in his first life. Jeralt wasn’t one to educate him on the greater political affairs of Fódlan, no doubt out of distrust for Rhea and an unwillingness to involve Byleth in the games played by the nobility. He didn’t fault his father for that.

“You don’t seem surprised to be walking alongside His and Her Majesties,” Claude commented.

“Would you rather I grovel and kneel? To you as well, for that matter? Please, pardon this foolish commoner for his lack of grace and decorum. I’d rather not be executed.” _Especially since I’ve just been executed a few hours ago._

“And here I thought you didn’t have a sense of humour,” he chuckled.

“No one’s talking about execution,” Dimitri hurriedly clarified. “And please, dispense with the formalities. There’s no need for such behaviour between friends.”

Friends already, huh? It had been a while since he’d interacted with the prince, but his honesty and earnestness were always something to behold.

“Thank you.”

In the corner of his vision, Byleth saw Jeralt smiling slightly at their interaction. He knew that his father had always been concerned about the way he’d grown up and his reclusive nature, now that he’d read his father’s journal many times over. Good, it would probably help convince Jeralt to take on his professorship.

It was probably a little bit manipulative to follow that line of thinking, but Byleth was far too tired from the time loop that he’d been stuck in to care.

“Look!” Alois exclaimed suddenly. “Garreg Mach Monastery!”

It was always a grand sight, no matter how many times he’d passed by the exact same route. The Monastery stood tall and proud, a stark contrast to the state of ruin and disrepair that would befall it within a year. It was a reminder of all that he had fought for through all this time.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” his father said as he walked by his side, then slowed down his pace. Byleth matched it. “It’s been many years since I first came here, but nothing’s changed at all.”

Hadn’t he been injured protecting Rhea at the time? It was amazing how many clues Byleth had missed through all his years repeating the same events. Rhea had revealed the circumstances behind Jeralt’s recruitment into the Knights of Seiros in his first life, but it was only much more recently that he’d been able to tease out the truth of his parentage and the secrets that Jeralt kept to his grave, even in the lives where Byleth had managed to save him from both Kronya and Solon. He’d still always meet his end somewhere in the time of Byleth’s disappearance, of course.

“Yeah,” he said, since he was expected to say something. It _was_ supposed to be his first time here.

“Listen, son,” Jeralt said hesitantly, voice lowered in a way that Alois couldn’t hear. Ah. So that was why he’d slowed down. “Byleth. Are you sure about this?”

He nodded. “If it doesn’t work out, I can return to mercenary work like you did. Besides, Alois seems like a good mentor. Is there something bothering you about this?”

Jeralt looked taken aback by the question for an instant. It was a chance to feel out the changes he’d made this early in the timeline. If his father’s impression of him remained similar to that of other timelines –

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I just wish you’d have told me about wanting to become a knight sooner.”

Jeralt wasn’t about to reveal any secrets that had been kept from him any time soon, then. “Like I said, it’s more of a passing interest.”

“You can’t simply _leave_ the Knights once you’re in the Church,” he warned. “I left without warning.”

“Then I won’t formally join as a Knight until I’m certain,” Byleth countered. “There’s no such regulation for squires, is there?”

The older mercenary – well, professor now, probably – considered the question carefully, probably thinking back to his time in the service of the Church. “I suppose not.”

“Jeralt! Byleth! Hurry up!” Alois shouted from up ahead. “It’s rude to keep the Archbishop waiting!”

“We’re coming, we’re coming!” Jeralt shouted back, then grumbled under his breath. “Damn Alois. I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’ll have to get used to it,” Byleth remarked offhandedly. “Those kids will drive you mad otherwise.”

“You’re more excited about this than I thought,” he said while catching up with the rest of the group. “You’re far more chatty than usual.”

“Is that a problem?”

“What? No!” he denied. “If anything, I’m glad. You’ve been spending far too much time with only mercenaries for company. It’ll take some time to get used to him, but Alois is a good man.”

Under his breath, he muttered, “_Even if his jokes should be considered an offense to the Goddess.”_

Alois could be a real handful, but there was no doubting his dependability. More than once, he’d sacrificed his life to save Byleth or other students without hesitation.

“Speaking of Alois,” Jeralt began saying curiously. “How do you know about him? I don’t recall ever mentioning him to you before.”

“I’ve read about him,” Byleth half-lied. He _had_ read excerpts of his deeds in the monastery before. “Both of you are quite famous Knights of Seiros.”

“You never mentioned that.”

“Again, you didn’t ask.”

With that, Jeralt must have been satisfied, because he didn’t question Byleth on the issue any further. Good. It was far too early into this life for suspicion to set in.

He had some general plans for the immediate future. Work with the different Houses in his capacity as a neutral party to try and sort out their major issues. Win their trust and counsel, and hopefully find a way to minimise future bloodshed. Cripple the Agarthans wherever possible. Make as much of an impact in as many ways as possible before the inevitable time came where he would be forced to disappear from Fódlan for almost five years, and hope that the future war wouldn’t progress the way it had every other lifetime.

Of course, he should perhaps be a little bit more subtle if he decided on assassination attempts going forward. Getting executed merely four months into a new life was frankly embarrassing for someone with the experience, foresight _and_ hindsight that he had.

Very optimistic goals, but Byleth was willing to try something new if it had even the smallest chances of success. Each life was different, and who was to say that this one wouldn’t work out?

…who was he kidding? Given his track record, he’d probably find a way to end up dead even earlier than in his previous life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand we're back to canon (sigh).
> 
> Think I might have mis-sold this story a little in the first chapter, as of now I'm planning to keep this as a single loop rather than having him die a few more times. His whole execution thing was mostly a (failed) attempt to portray his current mindset and choice of methods after his years in the loop, AKA standard fare hurrdurr Peggy Sue bullshit.
> 
> So far my plan is for things to go by canon for awhile with some butterflies in the way, until a point where things can get (sort-of) derailed. Hoping to get to that point soon!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope it wasn't too much of a slog. Definitely enjoying writing this while waiting for my favourite fics to update (cough cough hint hint)


	3. Tributaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tributary: n. a stream that flows to a larger stream or other body of water;  
adj. furnishing subsidiary aid; contributory.

Standing in the grand audience chamber where Rhea and Seteth were already waiting, Byleth wondered not for the first time whether he would eventually grow older than the three remaining Children of the Goddess. If the historical accounts were correct, the massacre at Zanado should have been just over a thousand years ago, although he had no idea how old they had been prior to Nemesis’ arrival.

Considering the diminishing progress he’d been having with each new life, that was looking like a real possibility. He was looking forward to the day when he’d be able to tell Rhea just how old he really was, even after factoring the high likelihood of her turning on him the way she had lifetimes ago when confronted about the truth of Crest Stones and the nature of the Church. Entertainment was extremely rare in his life, nowadays.

“Alois, Jeralt. It’s a pleasure to welcome you back to the monastery,” Rhea greeted. “And who might you be?”

Byleth stepped forward, giving a slight nod in respect. It would help win some respect from Seteth, if nothing else. “Byleth Eisner, Lady Rhea. Jeralt Eisner is my father.”

As always, he noted the slightest widening of her eyes at the implication of that statement. The only successful experiment in reviving her dear mother had returned to the monastery.

Unfortunately for her, Sothis hadn’t been around for a long time.

Byleth watched as she smoothened her expression quickly. “Welcome to Garreg Mach Monastery, child. I believe this is your first time here? I am Rhea, Archbishop of the Church of Seiros, as you have noted. This is Seteth, my second-in-command.”

Byleth nodded. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

There was a moment of silence, then Alois took the chance to speak. “Lady Rhea, if I may begin my report?”

She gestured for him to continue. He cleared his throat. “As you know, my knights were made aware of the unexpected situation in the training exercise by several students in the late hours of last night. We immediately took action and tracked the bandits down to Remire Village.”

He smiled widely, then turned to gesture at Byleth and his father. “When we arrived, the bandits had already been dealt with. Captain Jeralt and Byleth had rendered their assistance to our students. My men have chased down most of the remaining mercenaries, but unfortunately their leader and several others have successfully escaped. We will be continuing our search in the meantime.”

Who knew that Alois had a serious side to him? Then again, his respect for Rhea had always eclipsed those for Jeralt and himself.

Rhea waited a few seconds longer. “Is there anything else you wish to add, Alois?”

“If I may be so bold?” he asked, waiting for her affirmation. She waved her hand regally. “I would like to recommend my former captain, Jeralt, to the position of professor in the monastery. I’m sure that everyone present in this room is aware of his deeds.”

“Hmm… it is true that our previous professor fled at the sight of bandits,” Seteth hummed in consideration. “And the Blade Breaker was indeed a Knight of known repute.”

“Would you be willing to accept the position, Jeralt?” Rhea asked after a moment of consideration. “You left in quite a hurry before. I had thought you wanted nothing to do with me and the Church.”

Jeralt shook his head. “That was a long time ago. Besides, there’s more.”

“More?” Seteth asked.

Alois nodded. “Byleth has requested to serve as my squire. If there is no trouble, I would like to accept.”

“Truly?” Seteth mused. “You wish to become one of the Knights of Seiros?”

“I am uncertain, to tell you the truth,” he said, knowing that Seteth valued his honesty. “Still, it is an avenue I wish to consider. Besides, my father will be in the monastery for the foreseeable future.”

Rhea would accept the request, anyway. There was no way that she wouldn’t. Having the vessel of her mother close at hand was far too enticing an offer to pass up.

“Lady Rhea?” Seteth deferred to her authority.

“I will allow it,” she said. “Alois, I trust you will make the necessarily arrangements?”

He nodded. “It will take some time, but there shouldn’t be any problems. I would also like to request to be attached on missions with our younger students to give Byleth some experience.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Seteth considered. “Do you have the necessary skills, however? I do not doubt your abilities, but missions with the Knights of Seiros deal with threats far more serious than bandits.”

_More than you’d believe._ “I think so, yes,” Byleth said instead.

“Perhaps a test would put your mind at ease?” Rhea suggested. “The students will be taking part in mock battles shortly. I would like you to participate in them in place of your father for the House that he chooses to teach.”

So… not much different from every other life. “That won’t be a problem,” he agreed.

“On that matter, have you chosen which House you will be teaching?” Seteth moved the conversation forward. “There haven’t been many changes since you were last in Garreg Mach, Captain.”

“Giving me the chance, huh? I suppose I’ll talk to the kids and see which of them wants a fossil like me,” Jeralt said. “I’m guessing old Hanneman and Manuela are still teaching here?”

“Don’t ever let Manuela hear you call her that,” Alois shivered as he said that. “I didn’t think that you knew them? You left the Knights before they began teaching.”

“I wouldn’t call us friends, but we’ve crossed paths before,” he said. “Mercenary work brings us around Fódlan, and I’ve kept up with news about the Church.”

That was something that Byleth hadn’t known. New information already, so soon into his new life! It was certainly shaping up to be a productive one.

“If that’s everything settled?” Seteth asked. “In that case, please do take the opportunity to meet with our students. I do hope that you will enjoy your time here, Professor.”

Seteth was being far more respectful in his dealings with Jeralt than he’d been with him. Byleth supposed that the Blade Breaker was much more renowned than the lesser-known Ashen Demon, not to mention his own unknown status within the Church. Seteth wasn’t as suspicious or hostile of Byleth’s intentions as he used to be in past lives either, probably because a simple squire had far less influence than a professor.

Jeralt gave a final nod. “If we may be excused?”

“Take care, my child. May the Goddess guide you.”

Jeralt turned, gesturing for him to follow. Alois did likewise after a final goodbye to the Archbishop and her attendant.

“Byleth,” Alois addressed him after they’d left the audience chamber. “I’ll handle the arrangements in the coming days. For now, I’m afraid I’ll have other matters to attend to.”

“That will be fine. Thank you, Alois.”

Alois turned to his father. “Captain Jeralt, once again it’s good to have you back. I’d love to catch up with you soon.”

“If you promise to tone down your jokes, sure,” Jeralt agreed. “Assuming the kids don’t drive me crazy by then.”

“Hah! Who knew you could tell jokes as well!” Alois laughed boisterously. “I’m afraid I really have to go, though. Take care, captain.”

With that, he left, rushing toward one of the knights under his command at his usual frantic pace.

“He’s still the same as ever, after all these years,” Jeralt muttered. “Well, I suppose I should meet those kids. Do you want to follow?”

Byleth shook his head. He didn’t have much of a desire to make the usual introductions. “I’ll explore on my own. We’ll meet here at sundown?”

“Alright. Take care.” His father nodded, then moved to walk down the stairs.

Byleth continued standing there for a moment. If his predictions were right, his father would probably teach the Golden Deer House. Dimitri and Edelgard came with far too many responsibilities, and Jeralt hadn’t necessarily given the impression that he wanted to deal with future monarchs like them. Besides, Leonie probably wouldn’t give up the chance to have his father teach her, given her self-proclaimed status as his apprentice. She could be very persistent in matters like these.

There wasn’t much else to do. Better get back into shape, then. The third floor tended to be empty at this time of day, and he wasn’t too keen on showing up at the training grounds just yet. No doubt the usual training addicts like Felix, Caspar and Raphael would be there at this time. Some time to decompress after the course of his previous life and to make some plans going forward would be welcome.

With that, he moved up the stairs, going over the usual drills and training points that had worked in previous lives. Efficient methods to bring himself back to a reasonable standard were something he devised early on. It was particularly important to someone who used both magic and martial prowess simultaneously in battle, after all.

-o-o-o-

_“Damn it, Ferdinand, just surrender!” Byleth yelled, as he ducked to avoid yet another thrust of his former student’s lance from atop the horse he was riding. He readied his own counterattack, but his foe read his telegraphed attack easily. They had trained together in the monastery; their chosen methods of fighting were no big secret._

_“Sorry, Professor, but I can’t let you win today,” he said grimly, tugging on his horse. Its armoured body retreated, creating space between the two generals. All around them, battalions of soldiers bearing the colours of black and gold fought against one another._

_Despite the din of battle amid thundering roars and gushing blood, none dared intrude upon the two figures now carefully evaluating each other’s guard. There was a lull in the battle, but the tension only peaked. A moment of weakness or distraction was all it would take for the tide to shift._

_“Edelgard imprisoned your father!” he argued. “She started this war! Even if you think her cause is noble – and I _know_ you don’t – there has to be a better way!”_

_“More than ever, she needs me to guide her,” Ferdinand snapped. “The Empire needs me. Surrendering now would be the same as spitting on the von Aegir name.”_

_“Who cares about a damned name?!” Byleth gripped the Sword of the Creator tightly. His knuckles were probably blanching, but he wasn’t about to be distracted enough to look away from his opponent. “People are dying, Ferdie! You know she can’t win! You know _you _can’t win! Why fight for her?”_

_His student’s eyes hardened. “Dorothea’s dead.”_

_Byleth felt a familiar sinking sensation in his chest. For a moment, his guard lowered, but Ferninand made no effort to press the attack. After a moment’s silence, Byleth finally spoke, voice cracking. “I – I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”_

_A second later, he dared ask. “How?”_

_“Kingdom ambush, two years ago. She –“ he choked on his words. “She was injured. Poisoned arrows. She died in pain. If you saw what it was like – if you saw her, feverish, screaming in pain, pale as a corpse, you’d know why I fight. Professor.”_

_He understood. Oh, Goddess, how he knew. He had lived it in his previous life._

_He remembered how he’d descended upon the group of Imperial knights, fighting with no grace or finesse. He remembered the bizarre furious calm that overwhelmed all else. Nothing mattered except for his enemies to _pay_. He recalled the screams that only strengthened his blows, as his sword hacked through tempered steel into flesh again and again._

_When he finally let go of his blade from an arm that had long-since turned numb, the only things he could hear were the thumping of his heart and the crackling flames all across Derdriu. Blood pooled all around him._

_He remembered holding Marianne’s body that had since turned cold, the barest visage of a smile plastered onto her face in her last moments, knowing that she’d saved the lives of civilians. It was the only smile Byleth had ever seen on his student’s face. He had made the mistake of growing to care for her, foolishly thinking that perhaps one day, when all was over, they might just be able to have a life together._

_Her face would come to haunt him for the rest of that life. It still haunted him now, in his second._

_“I understand,” he told Ferdinand resolutely. “I’m sorry.”_

_“I’m sorry too, Professor.”_

_No further words were necessary. Each understood the other’s resolve._

_Two generals moved. Two flashes of steel. One instant; one mistake._

_One victor._

_Byleth retracted his blade to its original configuration, as the Empire noble’s body fell from his horse, lance still tightly held in his hand. Blood oozed from the wound in his chest, staining the stones of the Great Bridge of Myrddin a bright red. There was no spurting of the crimson fluid; his heart couldn’t continue beating with a puncture wound of that magnitude._

_“THE AEGIR BASTARD’S DEAD!” one of his troops shouted. “KILL THE REST OF THESE SCUM!”_

_Byleth didn’t advance. He knelt by his fallen student, closing the eyes of his still-warm body. His soldiers could handle the rest._

_The Alliance had as good as won, even before he killed Ferdinand. Claude and the rest were already finishing up with Empire forces. It was so similar to his previous life, but so different._

_Ferdinand had been on _their_ side in that life. Byleth had recruited him to the Golden Deer House. He didn’t die here._

_What was the point of Sothis’ power? Why had he been brought back? Why had she kept him away from his departed students?_

_What was the _point_ to any of this?!_

_Then there was the more troubling thought: Would he have yet another rebirth? Would this happen again?_

No. Never again, _he told himself. He couldn’t keep doing this, couldn’t live with that guilt._

_There were two possibilities here. His second chance at life was either a fluke, or Sothis wanted something of him. If so, he'd have already failed._

_He raised the Sword of the Creator high._

_“Good work, General.” His aide trotted up to his side on his horse. Already, the Empire forces were routing._

_He didn’t reply, steeling his nerves. This was it._

_“General?”_

_He took a deep breath…_

_… and plunged the Sword of the Creator into his own chest._

_Images flashed by, some of obscure significance and some that he’d seen before. There was that song that he’d heard twice in his previous life._

_He awoke in his bed, just as he’d done before._

_So, this was it. He would fight to save them all, or he would die. So long as Sothis saw fit to send him back into the past, he’d continue to fight. He owed it to Ferdie, to Dorothea and Marianne, to all who had died in this pointless war and the last, and all future wars to come._

_No matter the cost._

-o-o-o-

Damn. He hadn’t had that dream in a long time.

His second life was such a distant memory. Most details had since faded into the sands of time, but Ferdinand’s death wasn’t something he forgot easily. The memories felt strangely detached, the feelings and significance of its events not having the same impact on him today as it did back then. He hadn’t developed the same emotional attachment to his students in many lives since. He couldn’t afford to.

He'd began his journey fighting for the sake of his students, but something had changed over the long years. It was selfish, but somewhere along the way it had become more along the lines of destroying the loop entirely rather than working to protect his students. He hated himself for that, but things were bound to change after watching his students die in every one of his many lives.

Byleth knew that he wasn’t going to get back to sleep. He never managed to in the past.

He quickly got dressed, then made his way to the training ground. There wouldn’t be anyone there this early in the morning.

Yesterday had gone almost entirely as expected. Jeralt had opted to take charge of the Golden Deer House. They had a quiet dinner, with his father not questioning the reason behind his overnight changes. The details were fuzzy, but he didn’t think that they had a close relationship prior to the start of all of this, when life was so much simpler as a group of mercenaries.

He was focused as he went through his forms. Working with swords, gauntlets, daggers and magic were his priority. Axes and lances weren’t the most practical ways of fighting for him. They were far too conspicuous weapons, made more for a grand battlefield than the skirmishes that filled the majority of his lives. Wyvern Lords and Great Knights worked best in units as organised charges, while his chosen forms of combat were more versatile when fighting alone.

After all, he could hardly protect his students if he was asking them to risk their lives for him by his side. No; he’d more often than not taken a leaf from Felix’s book and fought alone, without a battalion of troops by his side.

There was something relaxing in the way his strikes landed against training dummies. The stakes were absent, completely unlike the countless battles he’d fought in. Here, he could strike uncaring of the man that stood behind the point of his blade. Even though he no longer hesitated during war, he still appreciated the value of human life. Someone who had seen as much as him couldn’t afford not to do so without becoming the very thing he fought against.

Punches and grapples turned to slashes and thrusts. Stone chunks bore singe-marks from _Fire_ and _Thunder_. Holes were drilled into straw targets from concentrated beams of _Thoron_.

On and on it went. He’d only stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps. He concentrated on the pattern of their steps.

_tap. Tap. tap. Tap._

The second step subtly louder than the first with each gait cycle. A focused rhythm, with just a very slightly displaced centre of mass. There weren’t very many possibilities as to who it was. Felix always did enjoy starting his training early in the morning. Moments later, his suspicions were confirmed.

If Felix was surprised by the fact that someone had beaten him to the training ground, he let none of it show. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, followed a second later by a glint of recognition.

“You’re the new Professor’s son,” he stated.

Byleth nodded, then introduced himself. “Byleth.”

“Felix,” he returned. A sign of respect, knowing the way Felix worked. More than likely he was evaluating the state of the nearby training dummies against his Jeralt’s reputation as a mercenary.

Then he sneered. “The boar prince seems to think highly of you.”

That was surprising. “Dimitri? I can’t say I’ve talked to him much.”

“He says you want to become a _Knight._”

Ah. So that was where the vitriol was coming from.

“He’s not wrong,” Byleth said simply. Felix continued frowning, then ignored his presence entirely. He drew his blade and began to train.

Strange. Their first introduction normally involved a friendly spar. Then again, Byleth would usually have proven his worth by that time, either through lessons with his House or in his showing in the mock battle. Along his false declaration of intending to squire under Alois, he could see why Felix was pointedly refusing to acknowledge his presence.

Byleth shrugged, then went back to his training. He didn’t come here with any intention of sparring, anyway.

They worked on opposite sides of the training ground, not exchanging a word. Finally, after several tens of minutes, he heard Felix approaching him.

“You’re skilled.”

Byleth paused from his practice of the drills that he’d created many lives before to hone his technique as a Swordmaster, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he turned to face Felix.

“Debatable.” He could do so much more when his body was back to its peak condition.

“You don’t practice like a knight,” Felix continued, ignoring what he’d said.

“I’m not a knight.”

“You fight like a warrior,” he said. “You don’t just rely on your sword. You train your hands and feet.”

_Always the observant one, Felix._ “If knights don’t already, then they should.”

“You’re not like the rest,” he nodded in approval. “Those fools limit themselves to the tools in their hands.”

Byleth nodded. This was a familiar conversation. Might as well bring back some old memories. “Spar?” he asked.

Felix considered his request, then agreed, drawing his blade as he settled into a familiar stance. Byleth had copied that at some point, then adapted and refined it into one that suited himself, among many other sword forms through the long years. Funnily enough, in past lives Felix had asked for Byleth to teach him what was essentially his plagiarised techniques.

The two fighters looked at each other across the training ground. Like it had been back on the Bridge of Myrddin with Ferdinand, no words were necessary. The only difference was that this was no battle to the death.

The pair dodged and parried; slashed and punched. Swords met with ringing clangs as he matched Felix’s tempo. There wasn’t a need to overpower his former student immediately. They continued at the same pace for some time.

Byleth absently noted some of the training ground regulars beginning to stream in one by one during their spar, alternating between watching their spar and working on their own drills.

“You’re holding back,” Felix noted as the informal spar reached a natural lull.

“I am,” he agreed. “There’s no need to go all out. You’ll still have classes later.”

“Hmph.” Felix restarted the fight, moving faster than he did previously. Against any one of his peers, he’d probably easily emerge the victor, but Byleth had faced many versions of Felix with far more experience and won.

Several clashes of their weapons later, he saw an opening. Felix always shifted his balance just a little too much when attempting that sort of attack, something that he’d only come to correct over the coming months. Byleth abused that weakness, deflecting the incoming blow aside, destabilising Felix in the instant that he overcompensated for his change in balance.

Felix tried to regain control of his footing, but Byleth continued his assault. A hard shove sent his opponent sprawling onto the floor, followed swiftly by a kick that sent his sword clattering across the floor. An instant later, the point of his blade rested an inch from Felix’s throat.

“Yield?”

He could see Felix trying to find a way out of his predicament. Finally, he gave up. “Yield.”

Byleth pulled him up to his feet. “Good spar.”

“I still lost,” Felix grumbled, but there was no animosity in it. Byleth knew about his singular focus on getting stronger. “You fought like a mercenary. From the start, I aimed to win, but I couldn’t defeat you.”

He picked up his blade where it landed, carefully inspecting Byleth with narrowed eyes. “But there’s something bothering me. You aren’t fighting for victory.”

_That_ observation was different. “How so?” Byleth asked curiously.

“You didn’t come at me with your full strength. You were distracted during the fight. You’re not fighting to win, you fought not to lose.”

Fair point. “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded.

“Not a knight, but not a mercenary,” Felix mused. “You’re different.”

Byleth considered his point. He wasn’t expecting to be psychoanalysed by Felix this early into the term, but now that he thought about it, the conclusion of his analysis might as well have defined the way he lived all his lives. He wasn’t fighting for any grand victory, all he wanted was to put an end to the damned war to come. Nothing else really mattered.

He might as well try winning some influence over those present. Ultimately, one purpose of this life was to try and see if he could influence all three houses without commitment to one. Dimitri, Dedue, Raphael and Caspar weren’t exactly being subtle in the way they observed their spar.

“Why do you fight?” he asked instead, despite already knowing the answer. This was more for the theatrics of it.

“Why? Hmm…” Felix said thoughtfully. “I never really thought about that. I learned to thrust a sword before I learned to write my name. You’re of no use if you can’t swing a blade, however mighty your Crest might be. Grow strong so you may live, and live to grow stronger. That’s what I was taught.”

“I’m different,” Byleth said. “I don’t even _like_ fighting. Given a chance, I’d rather avoid a battle.”

“And you want to become a knight?” Felix scoffed. “That’s hardly –“

“Let me finish,” he interrupted. “I’d avoid a battle, because some fights are pointless. Senseless. People kill each other for no reason. Ask why they fight, and you’ll realise just how flimsy their reasoning is. When you die, you _die. _There’s no second-chances, no take-backs. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be a living coward than a dead fool.”

_Not like I could really die, anyway._

Felix stiffened. He could hear someone inhale sharply, probably Dimitri. No doubt that was a little too close to home. Still, he pressed on.

_Ferdie, on the Bridge of Myrddin. All the lives claimed in the entire damned pointless war. _“Some fights are unavoidable. Perhaps the two parties have differing opinions that they refuse to yield. In that case, at least attempt to de-escalate. If _that _doesn’t work, then fight.”

“I didn’t expect you to be so naïve.”

“Perhaps I am,” Byleth acquiesced. He supposed it took a special kind of ignorance to continue doing what he did after hundreds of years of failure. “But I’m not that stupid either, which brings me to my next point. If you commit to a fight, you better be damned sure that you have a way to end it. It doesn’t matter what your method is. Lie, cheat, abuse every advantage you have. War is selfish, and it doesn’t give a damn about chivalry or fair play. _Run,_ if it comes down to it. There’s nothing worse than a drawn-out battle.”

Edelgard certainly hadn’t thought about what that would mean when she started the war. Fódlan had been locked in a stalemate for years, each side throwing bodies against the other with minimal territory changing hands, paying dozens of bodies for meagre amounts of land. He didn’t mean to brag, but his influence was somehow _the_ key factor in changing the course of the war in almost all his many lives.

“That sounds almost contradictory,” Felix scoffed sarcastically. “Is that really the way a knight should be thinking?”

“What _do_ you think makes a knight?” he directed the question back at Felix.

“I’m sure these fools have some thoughts,” Felix waved around himself. “Boar prince! What do you think!”

“Don’t insult His Highness –“

“It’s alright, Dedue,” Dimitri halted the impending confrontation. He turned to face Byleth. “I would say that strength, loyalty and courage are important values.”

“I fight only for His Highness,” Dedue said stoically as Byleth looked at him.

“Hmm,” Byleth hummed. He turned to Raphael. “And you?”

The large man scratched his head. “I don’t really think of it much, but a knight’s _strong, _right? I have to be strong to be a proper knight. And I want to protect my little sis! Oh, and I heard that proper knights always help those in need. Isn’t that right?”

Raphael’s eyes lit up at the mention of his sister. In a way, it was what Byleth fought for. That, and just trying to escape from the damned time loop in general.

He nodded. He asked the same question of the final onlooker, making sure to remember that he _didn’t know their names_ yet. It wouldn’t do good for them to grow suspicious. “You?”

Caspar looked startled at being addressed. “I just train to make it on my own, you know? I don’t really know what a knight should be like.”

“Fine. So, a knight is strong, loyal, protective and helpful. Is that right?” He waited a moment before continuing. “Let me ask you this instead: would you serve a king unwaveringly, even if you know his cause is unjust? Would you fight a war that would kill uncountable innocent lives?”

“If His Highness demands it, without question,” Dedue replied immediately. Dimitri snapped to look at him.

“Dedue –“

“_That _kind of thinking is how wars begin,” Byleth cut in. There was no room for a soft approach here. These kids needed to understand. “More than anything, I believe that a knight needs to have a conviction tempered by wisdom. How many wars do you think could have been averted if soldiers had the courage to disobey orders for what they believed was right? If generals disagreed with their kings? And if a war does begin, how many of them could have been stopped if people dared to follow their hearts rather than absolute orders?”

_Ferdinand could have surrendered, damn it. He and so many others after him gave their lives for nothing. _

Byleth had certainly seen his fair share of knights that simply surrendered or fled in battles. Together, they could easily form a sizable fighting force, but none dared go against their rulers, regardless of whether they served under the banners of Edelgard, Dimitri or Claude. The war would be so much simpler if they’d dared to defy their leaders.

Hell, there was even _one_ lifetime where he’d convinced Kronya to turn against the Agarthans after botching up Solon’s planned betrayal. If she could do that, just about everyone else probably could.

“I respect your opinion, Byleth, but I think that’s also a dangerous way of thinking,” Dimitri argued. “A knight shouldn’t defy his liege simply because of his own beliefs. He may not have the full picture.”

Byleth frowned. “Maybe so. I’m not asking you to change your mindset entirely, or to take what I say as fact,” he clarified. “All I’m asking is that you consider my words and _think_. Sometimes, blindly serving a lord is the worst thing you can do, both for yourself and for your liege.”

Dedue’s blind loyalty certainly hadn’t helped changed Dimitri’s mindset during the war, even when the first hints of it started appearing before the war began. If anything, Dedue’s and later Rodrigue’s loyalties only served to further feed his inner demons. At times, the king’s vengeful nature and obsession over killing and revenge seemed worse than Edelgard’s own determination to unify Fódlan and topple the Church, whatever the cost.

The bell rang from the top of the monastery’s massive tower. “You should get to class,” he said. “Just think about it.”

One by one, they departed, after quick (re)introductions by Raphael and Caspar. Felix seemed to view Byleth with a little more respect than he’d started with, coupled with a new thoughtful look in his eyes. Was he thinking about Glenn and the Tragedy of Duscur?

The training ground fell quiet. As he prepared to work on training his magic once more, now that the students had left, he thought about what had transpired.

That impromptu teaching session hadn’t been planned for, but hopefully it would put some things into perspective. He’d tried such things before, but his words hadn’t ever really sunk in enough to have a lasting impact on the war. Maybe with his position now more similar to one of their peers than a professor, they would be more willing to listen to his words.

It was a step in the right direction. A very small one, but a step nonetheless.

-o-o-o-

There was something wrong with his son, and Jeralt was determined to find out what it was.

Far too many things didn’t add up. His son couldn’t have ever been considered ‘normal’, but the way he acted in the previous few days was too different in comparison to how he was like before. Since that night when he’d waken up – without Jeralt’s prompting, he would add – it was like he had changed almost completely.

He was far more expressive and charismatic than he’d used to be. He’d seen the way that Byleth had talked to Alois and the three royal brats. He’d convinced Alois to take him on as a squire, despite knowing that Byleth never had the intention of joining the Knights of Seiros before.

Goddess be damned, Jeralt didn’t think that Byleth had even so much as _heard_ of the Church before. With all that had happened with Rhea, he’d distanced himself and his son from the Church as much as possible.

Then there was the way he fought. Byleth had always been skilled, having been taught personally by the former Captain since he was a child, but it was as though he’d picked up years of experience overnight.

The way he took on the bandits was virtually flawless. Sure, they were just common bandits, but there were no wasted movements in the way he’d fought. Byleth had been in constant motion, dodging and countering strikes in a way that Jeralt could honestly say he’d have some difficulty replicating. He cut them down with strikes aimed precisely to kill, and he made it seem like nothing. Then, for some inexplicable reason, he’d let their leader go.

Of course, there was also the matter of him being capable of casting _Sagittae_. Jeralt was no mage, but he’d seen enough Black Magic at work to know that it was a fairly complex magical spell. Younger mages than he could learn the spell, certainly – that Lysithea girl was probably going to be close to that stage soon – but to have such experience with swordplay and magic? To cast those spells with the casual ease Byleth had displayed?

That kind of mastery took months of constant training, if not years. He’d relied on instinct, doing what felt right, the same way that Jeralt fought after honing his skills over decades spent as a knight and a mercenary.

On the first day of classes, the large boy (Raphael?) had hurriedly stumbled in well after he’d begun his first lesson, explaining that he’d been at the training ground to catch some early morning training. Jeralt had been ready to accept that, but then he’d continued to describe in vivid detail how his son had sparred against another student. If that wasn’t enough, they’d apparently entered some philosophical debate on the morality and psychology of knights for some incomprehensible reason.

At least that was how he understood it from Raphael’s account. He doubted that _‘Uh… he said that knights are smart’_ was all that Byleth had said.

He sighed. Just his luck that he’d elected to teach this House. In that class alone, the ways in which the two kids Lorenz and Raphael talked were equally difficult to understand sometimes, although for completely opposite reasons.

Then that other brat Leonie who seemed to have an obsession over him had viewed Byleth’s presence in the monastery as a personal challenge. He vaguely recalled her and the job he’d taken in that village, of course, but her zeal and the sheer intensity of her gaze as he spoke in class were far disproportionate in comparison to what he’d done for her village.

She came back after their lunch break, stating that Byleth ‘was the real deal’, whatever that meant. It took only some probing before she described meticulously just how she’d been completely dominated in their spar. With _lances_, no less. Had Byleth even wielded a lance before?

There were too many mysteries here. He’d wager a good amount of gold that Rhea might have some idea about what was going on, but he wasn’t just about to ask her any time soon. She had her own share of mysteries that he never uncovered in the two decades since he’d left his service of the Church.

It was why he was now approaching the training grounds after the second day of classes to see for himself just what his students were talking about. At this hour, the students should be gathered in the dining hall.

His first sight upon turning the corner that led to the grounds proper was the manifestation of a glyph with many rotating sigils that defined the spellwork. He was no mage, but he would reckon that was a sign of its complexity.

Then Byleth let his spell loose, and fired an Ailell-damned _Agnea’s Arrow_ that obliterated the training dummy he’d directed it at.

Jeralt didn’t know much about magic, but he was _very_ certain that it took a master mage to cast that spell without getting one’s head blown off. It didn’t have the same destructive power he’d seen from other mages in the rare occasion where they could cast the spell, but it was a complex feat nonetheless.

“Father,” Byleth greeted calmly as he turned around. Jeralt studied his face. After all the other signs that something wasn’t quite right with his son, he wasn’t surprised to see that the spell hadn’t given him even a single drop of sweat.

“Byleth,” he returned the greeting. “You’re training hard.”

Ah, he was never good with words. Just how should he ask what was on his mind?

“I suppose. How are your students?”

“Brats, all of them,” Jeralt snorted. “One noble thinks he’s funnier than he really is, another overestimates his importance. There’s one girl that does nothing but laze around, and another that’s obsessed with trying to impress me. You too, after your spar. Just what kind of impression did you make on her, anyway?”

Jeralt waved his hands in exasperation. The corners of his son’s lips turned upward just ever so slightly. “I just showed her some things she could work on.”

Cryptic. Jeralt continued. “The big one only shows interest in training and eating. The kid with spectacles is too timid to give his own opinions. The blue-haired girl straight-up doesn’t dare look into my eyes, never mind she _speak_. And the last girl somehow distorts every question that I ask her into a personal affront to her age.”

Damned kids were going to be the death of him. How was he going to continue teaching here?

“They’ve got more potential than you think,” Byleth said. Jeralt tilted his head in curiosity. Why did he sound so certain about that?

“I’ve only met Raphael and Leonie,” he began. “But I think there’s more to them than what you described. He trains hard to protect his sister and friends. Leonie’s dedicated. They’ll go far.”

It seemed like there was more to it than just that, but Jeralt let it slide. There were enough mysteries at present; he certainly didn’t need more. He just wanted one answered.

“Why are you acting so different?” Jeralt asked suddenly.

Byleth stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jeralt said, gesturing around the training grounds. Target dummies bore deep gouge marks in critical areas, wounds that would kill any human. Pillars and floor tiles were singed from errant spells. Chunks of rocks were straight up blasted into oblivion. “This. All of this.”

Strange. The pattern in which the sword strikes had cut into the practice dummies looked so strikingly familiar. Where had he had seen before?

His son’s posture relaxed slightly, head tilted down. For a moment, he didn’t speak.

“It just happened,” he said in a soft tone, a rare emotion breaking through; sorrowful and wistful, but it sounded honest. “I can’t explain it either.”

“There has to be more than that,” Jeralt argued. “If there’s something bothering you –“

“It’s not that,” he interrupted. “I just can’t say. Please.”

He looked into the depths of his son’s eyes. There was something there that hadn’t been present before. They seemed to carry a weight that Jeralt couldn’t fully comprehend.

He’d seen those eyes before, in his time as both a knight and a mercenary.

He saw people deal with grief in two ways. They either accepted it, rose and triumphed over it, or they couldn’t handle it and fell apart. Those that broke when faced with their crucibles fell into two groups.

One had a _look_ about them. They bore a heavy burden deep within. Their soul burned with a terrible hatred, and one day that flame would come to consume them. He’d seen fine mercenaries and knights fall prey to their grief, turning into people that were even less than thugs and bandits, ones that killed their victims in dark alleyways for the sole purpose of killing. Gold mattered not to them.

The other group appeared normal. Far too normal. They would laugh at everything, even when others would remain sombre. They saw themselves as the subject of some cosmic joke, their lives a plaything for the Goddess’ amusement. When the time came that they finally snapped, the aftermath was always worse than the first group.

The troubling thing was that Byleth’s eyes conveyed _both. _There was simultaneously a disease in his soul, and madness in his eye.

Why? What could possibly have caused this?

What sort of things had he seen? How did the Church and Rhea factor into all of this? Why _now_? There was no way that Byleth would suggest joining up with Alois if there wasn’t a reason to it.

The sheer intensity of his look told Jeralt all he needed to know. Something wasn’t right, but Byleth wouldn’t open up immediately. His men certainly hadn’t, in the past.

At least he had some experience in dealing with the matter. All it took was time to break down the walls. He would have plenty of it in the monastery, assuming the brats didn’t test his patience first.

“You’ll be taking part in the mock battle tomorrow,” Jeralt said, changing the subject. Then he raised an eyebrow, gesturing at the carnage of straw and stone all around himself. “If this is what you’re capable of, I’d say you wouldn’t have any trouble.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, but didn’t elaborate any further.

The silence stretched on for longer than should be comfortable.

“Shall we get some dinner?” Jeralt asked. “We can talk more.”

“I’d love that.”

There was no mistaking the honesty in that smile. There was something so familiar about it, bringing back memories of a time when things were simpler, when it was just the pair of them. A time from before he’d started his band of mercenaries, before he’d become known as the Blade Breaker.

He returned the smile, then led his son to the dining hall. He would let Byleth keep his secrets, for now. That smile told him everything he needed to know.

This was undoubtedly his son, his precious Byleth, and Jeralt would do anything to protect him. Just as his wife had done, all those years ago. He owed it to her.

He hoped that she was proud of them both. Soon, he told himself, he would tell Byleth all about her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little hesitant about uploading this, but ehhh what's done is done. Hope it wasn't too bad.


	4. Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reach: n. a continuous length of a stream or river, usually suggesting a level, uninterrupted stretch;  
v. seek to establish communication with someone, with the aim of offering or obtaining assistance or cooperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (even more fearfully uploads this)  
Some AU elements in this chapter where I couldn't find info on the wiki to help set some stuff up for later, if I get that far.  
Please don't kill me.

“I know I said that you could pick any four students for the mock battle,” his father began saying. “But are you _sure_ you want these four?”

Byleth really didn’t see what the problem was. He knew just how formidable his chosen students were when they worked together. During the war, they would become an elite force of their own, able to carry out their missions without input on his part.

“Yeah. Claude and Lysithea for their ranged capabilities, Hilda and myself up close, Marianne for healing. I’ll also be able to fill in for any deficiencies. Is there a problem?”

“It’s not so much about their abilities, it’s just…” his voice trailed off, before sighing deeply. “Look, kid. I’ve got nothing against Hilda and Marianne, but I’m not sure if they’re ready for this.”

Oh. Right.

“Because Hilda’s lazy and Marianne won’t say a word?” Byleth asked directly.

Jeralt winced. “I wouldn’t phrase it so bluntly, but yes.”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry. They’ll be ready.” _They always were._

“You sound very certain of that. Any reason as to why?”

“Just a feeling,” he deflected. His father didn’t need to know just how many times Byleth had participated in this mock battle. “You’ll see. Anyway, they’re coming in soon. No more time for discussion.”

He exchanged a nod with Raphael as he entered the classroom. Despite not being his professor in this life, his former student still treated him the exact same way he did before.

“Morning, Professor! Byleth!” he greeted cheerfully as he made his way to his seat. “I didn’t train today!”

Byleth looked curiously at his father. He sighed in exasperation, then explained, “I advised Raphael that training early in the morning might make it difficult for him to get to class on time.”

Ah. Raphael always took advice to heart, no matter who it came from. He was always so naïve in that way.

“That’s right!” Raphael agreed. “You said that knights got to be smart, so I’ve got to take these classes seriously!”

That really wasn’t at all what Byleth had meant back in the training ground, but he suspected that trying to explain his words would be more trouble than it was worth. “Excellent,” he said instead.

“So, what are you doing here today, Byleth? You here to watch us in the mock battle too?”

“Actually, I’ll be participating.”

Raphael’s eyes widened. “WOAH! Cool! I’ll be sure to pay extra attention, Professor!”

His enthusiasm was contagious. He gave a smile. “I hope I won’t disappoint.”

“Nah, Byleth, you’ll do great! I’m sure –“ he turned around as the classroom door opened. “Oh, hey Ignatz! Claude!”

Ignatz stiffened as Raphael called out to him. Right, they still had those lingering issues between each other from their childhood. Byleth used to play mediator in helping Ignatz come to terms with his guilt over the circumstances behind the loss of Raphael’s parents, but in more recent lives he’d let the two sort their issues out themselves.

Most times, they were successful. He simply didn’t have the time to spare on that matter amongst everything else he had to deal with. Hopefully, this life would be no different.

“Hey Teach!” Claude greeted. “Teach’s son! What are you doing here today? Not blowing more training dummies apart?”

Byleth groaned. “How do you even know about that? You weren’t even in the training grounds the past few days.”

“Maybe I was hiding somewhere?” he suggested.

“You weren’t.” He’d have known if he was. Claude could be stealthy, but after the many targeted assassinations over the years, Byleth had made it a point to try and be constantly aware of his surroundings under the incessant threat of death.

“You can’t be sure about that,” Claude said, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Byleth continued staring. Finally, he relented. “Fine, fine. Leonie won’t shut up about you. Say, is there something going on between you two? I know it’s not quite the same as between Professor and student, but -”

“No.”

He’d said it with such finality that even Claude didn’t continue his teasing. With the way his lives went, he couldn’t afford attachments like those. That way lay only pain and suffering. He’d learnt that well enough in his first life.

“Fine, fine,” he backpedalled. “So, Teach! What’s the plan for today?”

“We’ll wait for everyone before I start the briefing,” Jeralt said. “_Please_ just stay quiet?”

“No can do, Teach!” Claude quipped, finally plopping down onto a chair he’d lazily pulled out.

Byleth heard the muted mutter of _“damn kids” _from his father. It was refreshing, seeing someone else deal with everything he’d faced in his lives as a professor. He didn’t feel the least bit guilty at this little harmless schadenfreude.

Claude went on to engage in some mindless chatter with Raphael, and Byleth tuned them out. Soon enough, the rest of his students trickled in, before the bell no less. They hadn’t shown such commitment when he was their professor. He’d have to get some tips from his father for future reference.

“Alright, alright. Now that everyone’s here, I’ll brief you kids on the mock battle today,” Jeralt said, regaining control over the classroom. “Each House will send four students and their professor. For our case, Byleth will be participating in my stead.”

Byleth noted how Jeralt pointedly ignored the loud whistle that Claude gave at that announcement. He continued without pause. “We’ve already chosen our four representatives. Claude, Lysithea, Hilda, Marianne, you’ll be fighting today.”

He watched their reactions carefully. Leonie, Lorenz and Raphael looked disappointed that they weren’t selected, while Ignatz seemed mildly relieved. Claude flashed a lazy grin and a thumbs up, Lysithea sat up straighter in her seat, while Hilda and Marianne…

Hilda began to whine. “Huh? Are you sure, Professor? I’m not good in a fight, you know.”

_Tell that to the Imperial soldiers_. There was a reason why they spoke of the future Wyvern Lord or Great Knight of House Goneril in hushed whispers.

If his father had any doubts of his choice, he didn’t let them show. “You’ll do fine, I’m sure. You’re in the Academy for a reason.”

“Aww, but I’ll be so sticky and dirty!” she tried to argue, but reluctantly agreed after seeing that Jeralt wouldn’t budge. “Fine…”

“Um…” Marianne took the chance to speak up. “I…”

How could someone possibly deal with the issues she faced? What would make her realise that her existence and the Crest she bore were in no way a curse?

Ah, who was Byleth kidding. He knew exactly what needed to be done, had known for all the lives since his first. The problem was always in its execution, taking up far too much time and effort. She needed support, not just from him, but from all those in her House. In this life, at least, he might have the time to work on doing things right.

“Marianne.” Startled, she looked up, before immediately staring back at the table. He waited patiently until eye contact was re-established. “You’re the only one with healing magic here other than myself. Can we count on you when the time comes?”

He hated having to single her out like this in all his lives attached to the Golden Deer. She disliked being the centre of attention, disliked _herself_, but he really didn’t have much of a choice. At the beginning of every new life, contextualising just how unique she was as a person and how people depended on her were the only ways to begin her journey of healing. After _that_, he would still need to deal with the entire history of her Crest to get her to a state he knew she was capable of achieving.

She didn’t reply verbally, but nodded nonetheless, breaking eye contact as soon as that was done. Baby steps, Byleth told himself.

“Alright! Good pep-talk, little Teach!” Claude clapped his hands theatrically. “Team Golden Deer! Woo!”

“Woo,” Byleth echoed drily. “Also, I’m not your professor.”

He shrugged. “Might as well be. Anyway, got a plan for us, little Teach?”

Byleth guessed that he might as well be resigned to being called that by Claude. Some things just didn’t change between his lives. “Come to the front, four of you,” he requested. “You’ll need a view of the board.”

He waited for them to comply, then drew quick sketches once they were ready.

“Claude and Lysithea will provide cover fire, Hilda and I will engage the enemy up close, and Marianne stays in the back line to heal. I’ll cover any areas of deficiency as we go.”

“How are you going to do that?” Lysithea asked curiously. “Don’t misunderstand, it seems like a sound plan; but according to Leonie you’re trained with a lance, and you say you’re versed in healing magic?”

Claude chuckled. Lysithea turned to look at him in annoyance. “What’s so funny?”

“What’s funny, dearest Lysithea,” he managed to say between choked coughs. “Is that I have it on good authority that our dearest Professor’s son just so happens to also be a Mortal Savant.”

“I’m _not_ a Mortal Savant,” Byleth said tiredly. “I don’t understand why you keep saying that.”

“You beat _Felix_ _Hugo Fraldarius_ in a swordfight. I know for a fact that you can cast _Sagittae_. Come on, admit it, Teach.”

“Truly?” Lorenz offered his own input, a finger at his chin in a sign of consideration. “That _is_ rather impressive. House Fraldarius is well known for their mastery of swordsmanship, and even I who have studied Reason theory for many years still cannot cast the _Sagittae_.”

“You know _Sagittae_?” Lysithea asked excitedly. “You’ve got to teach me! I’m having some trouble with stabilising the spell matrix without collapsing the Roebian core, I’ve tried compensating with Roman’s Fifth Law but it doesn’t work –“

She caught herself mid-sentence, ceasing her enthusiasm abruptly as her cheeks reddened. Byleth rather enjoyed the moments where Lysithea acted her age.

As expected, Claude wouldn’t let the opportunity pass him by. “Oh boy, you’ve done it now, little Teach. Now you’ve got Leonie _and_ Lysithea begging for your help.”

Two pairs of eyes glared at him. Byleth decided to intervene, considering her question. Lysithea had always been diligent in the theoretical aspect of magic, and he’d learned well from her. “It’s no problem. I’ll help you later, but at first glance it’s probably easier to use Agnea’s Correction Factor as a shortcut than manually applying the fifth law to each variable.”

Her eyes lit up, as she quickly wrote down what he’d said on a piece of paper. Well, there was that matter solved. “Can we continue now?”

His students nodded. He began drawing quick annotations on the classroom board.

“We’ll be fighting in the plains near the monastery. There’ll be some natural terrain; hills, trees and the like. As a rule of thumb, we’ll be engaging in skirmishes to try and secure pick-offs. Hilda, you’ll be guarding Claude, Lysithea and Marianne and keeping the other students off them. Our strength is range and mobility, since the Lions and the Eagles will more than likely send in people like Dimitri, Dedue and Ferdinand with heavy weapons and armour that will slow them down. Draw them away, and their back lines will be left undefended.”

It was a tried and tested strategy, one that had been inspired from Claude’s own tactics. Later on, during the war, Claude would use it to great effect, setting up diversions and hit-and-run tactics to harry the larger Imperial forces. They wouldn’t be able to adapt quickly by virtue of their sheer size, enabling elite Alliance shock troops to slowly whittle their numbers down through guerrilla warfare as they advanced into Alliance territory; death from a thousand cuts as they suffered from attrition.

“Divide, isolate and conquer?” Claude mused. He must have recognised the sentiment behind that plan. “Not bad. Plays to our strengths, and abuses their weaknesses. And here I was thinking that we could maybe poison their lunch today.”

Byleth shrugged, recalling the times when Claude _did_ follow through with his plan. More than once, he’d been on the other side of that battle, beating the archer into submission while fighting for control of his bowels. In fact, there were times where he’d lost said control. “That works too. You can do both, if you want.”

Claude whistled. “Damn. You’re vicious, Teach.”

Hmm. Claude had the most minute of changes in his expression once again. He was re-evaluating Byleth, but he knew that so long as he didn’t pose any threat to him and the others, Claude would come to accept it.

“Any questions?” Byleth asked the four students. No time to dwell on that for now.

Hilda raised her hand. He replied out of sheer force of habit, so ingrained in him that it had almost become a reflex. “No, Hilda, you cannot forfeit from the very start.”

“That wasn’t even my question!” she said indignantly. He looked at her apologetically. In far too many lives, that was the _only_ question that came up both during her time as a student and later in the army of the Leicester Alliance. “I was _going_ to ask about what we’ll do if they just group up together.”

“If they do that, we win, regardless,” Byleth answered. “They can’t move quickly if they have to stick with their archers and mages. We hit from maximum range, and they go down. If their front-line attacks us, we hide in the trees or otherwise create some distance, circle around or split up and eliminate their more vulnerable targets. If they send someone mobile like Petra to try and take Claude, Marianne and Lysithea down, we retreat, regroup and take _that_ member down. Don’t overcommit, stick to the plan and things should work out.”

He listed the scenarios one by one on the board, overlaying them on the sketch of the battleground. It was second nature to him now, after all that time spent on the drawing board with Alliance, Kingdom and Empire tacticians. Working with three groups of five in a free-for-all battle was much easier than planning grand engagements like the many ones that had been fought on the Gronder Fields and Tailtean Plains.

“Understood?” He turned back to look at the class, gauging their reactions. They made no move to reply.

Claude blinked, turning to Jeralt. “No offense, Teach, but can we have little Teach as our new honorary Teach?”

It was a testament to how natural teaching this class felt that Byleth only now remembered that his father was technically their Professor, and that he’d just hijacked the entire lesson and strategy meeting. He would need to apologise later.

“I’m going to be working with Alois. My participation here is only temporary,” he said. “Let’s get back on topic. Any other questions?”

No hands were raised, so Byleth looked toward his father. It _was_ his lesson.

Jeralt took charge. “Right. If that’s all, you kids can take some time to relax before the battle. We’ll meet here again in two hours.”

With that, they left one by one. Claude held something that looked suspiciously like a small flask of a mild laxative, whistling a jaunty tune as he left. Knowing him, Byleth would give it a twenty-eighty chance that he’d actually use it. Lysithea had secured a promise for a future discussion on practical spellcasting before she left.

Finally, it was just him and his father in the classroom. “Good work,” Jeralt said. “You handled it nicely.”

“Sorry for interrupting your class like that. I lost track of myself.”

“It’s fine,” he waved his apologies aside. “If anything, I’m relieved. When you become a knight, you’ll need a tactical mind and an ability to connect with the men under your command. Not everyone can lead and explain like you just did.”

Huh. Byleth wasn’t sure whether or not his father truly believed the flimsy excuse he used to build a connection with the monastery without committing to a House, but he wasn’t about to comment on it.

“Thanks,” he said.

Jeralt changed the topic. “You’ve got two hours now. Any plans?”

He shook his head. He wasn’t foolish enough to start training now when he’d have to take part in the mock battle later.

“In that case, would you want to come with me to the faculty meeting? The other professors and Alois will be there.”

“Alright,” he agreed. He wouldn’t turn down the chance to win some influence over them. After all, he technically hadn’t met Manuela and Hanneman yet. It was selfish, but he would do anything if it meant preparing for the war to come. He followed his father as they left to the quarters that housed the professors on the second floor.

-o-o-o-

“Think they’ll win, Professor?” Leonie asked him up on the cliffs overlooking the battlefield. The students were separated into their Houses, while Rhea, Seteth and his sister formed a fourth coalition of their own. Alois had chosen to join him and his class, having just recently returned from his mission.

“They’ve got a good shot,” Jeralt considered. “Our strategy is technically sound, but we can’t be sure until we see what Hanneman and Manuela have planned with their students.”

“The odds do favour us, right?” Ignatz asked as he surveyed the battleground where the participants were getting into position. “I mean, Byleth did make a good point about the differences in mobility.”

“Don’t forget kid, the other Houses have their own specialities as well,” he pointed out.

“Indeed,” Lorenz said. “If they make a mistake, the Black Eagle mages can just as easily take out one of ours. If the Blue Lions can weather their assault and close the distance, they won’t be able to retreat from the reach of their lances. In that case, victory may regrettably be wrenched out of our hands.”

“Sounds complicated,” Raphael commented, rubbing at his tummy. Again. “Now I’m glad I’m not down there fighting. All that thinking’s going to make me hungry.”

Jeralt sighed. That kid seemingly alternated between making observations that cut to the heart of the matter of complex issues, and simple statements that meant nothing whatsoever. There was no middle ground.

“Such enthusiasm!” Alois laughed. “You students never cease to impress!”

“Hey!” Leonie pointed. “It’s starting!”

They fell silent, watching observantly as they put their plan into motion. Byleth led the way, pointing out positions where he’d wanted his students to go. As for the other Houses…

Their respective heads took charge without guidance from their professors. It was a fine effort, but Jeralt could immediately see the gaping flaws in their plan. They’d elected to send two members each to probe at the other group, but when considering that each team only had five members?

Splitting forty percent of their manpower away from the rest of their group was far too risky. Only less than half of their strength was being put to use.

They’d probably adapted it from military strategies, given what he knew about noble education in the Kingdom and the Empire. In a true battlefield, it would serve to probe for weak points and allow a continuous cycling of troops on the battlefront to maintain a stream of fresh bodies and keep morale high. It was something a knight or general would do, with battalions of troops under their command. Unfortunately, that sort of tactics didn’t translate well to small skirmishes like these.

Sure enough, Byleth had waited for the two groups to engage in battle, then swooped in to take them out once they were distracted. Nearby, he heard the groans coming from the remaining members of the other two Houses watching the battle unfold up on the cliffs.

The other leaders tried to react, mobilising the rest of their respective teams, but Byleth had ordered a retreat, sending them hiding in the trees once more. The pulses of white light radiating out from within the canopy indicated that they were healing up any injuries that had been sustained.

Alois whistled. “Byleth sure learnt well from you, Captain. Keep it up, and there won’t be any students of the other Houses By_-leth_ in his way.”

Jeralt groaned, as Alois looked expectantly at him. He refused to acknowledge the terrible pun. “Come on, Jeralt! You have to admit it was witty! _Byleth, left, _don’t you see?”

He feigned ignorance, but it only made Alois laugh all the harder. “Don’t worry, Captain! Once Byleth joins as my squire, I’ll be sure to teach him a sense of humour as well! I’ll tell him all the old jokes you used to tell!”

Allowing his son to continue in whatever plan he had in mind with Alois was looking more and more like a mistake. “Please don’t,” he said.

“I’m just teasing you, Jeralt,” his former subordinate said, clapping a hand to his back. “I’ll make sure Byleth becomes a good knight, but from what I can see he really doesn’t need much help from me.”

Alois pointed out into the field, where his son was dividing his own forces up to set up a pincer attack. With the bird’s-eye view that they had over the battlefield, his intent was clear to anyone watching, but the victims of his latest scheme would have no such luck. Once they were in position, arrows and magical spells began descending on the pair.

To their credit, the prince and his retainer from Duscur fought hard, recovering well from the surprise attack, but Byleth had chosen to spring their assault in advantageous terrain. With the many possibilities of hiding amongst rock formations and natural foliage, they maintained their advantage in range and brought the pair down as they popped in and out of cover.

“That’s another group down,” Alois provided commentary. “Hanneman’s all that’s left of his team.”

The professor was still standing up on his platform, sending spells out at targets when the opportunity presented itself. More than likely he’d chosen to give himself a handicap, thinking that Byleth was on the same level as his students. Jeralt wondered how he would react if he told his fellow professor that his son could cast an _Agnea’s Arrow._

Manuela was joining the remnants of her House. The Empire princess was shouting out orders, trying to catch the Golden Deer before they could return to cover from where they had taken out the Lions. It was a smart plan, but they were already down almost half their forces.

Ultimately, in a quick exchange, they managed to force Lysithea out of the exercise after taking a wound to the shoulder, but a quick _Fire_ from Byleth launched Edelgard backward, allowing Claude to land several shots on Hubert without her protection from the front. His son and Edelgard engaged in a quick duel, but soon enough she was disarmed and forced to surrender.

The four students ganged up on Manuela soon after from where she’d been distracted in dealing with Hilda, forcing her out of the fight. Like Hanneman, she’d probably been holding back as well, although her focus on the study of Faith didn’t lend well to a fight like this. A cheer rang out from the four students in front of him, juxtaposed against the expressions of defeat from the nearby Black Eagles.

Seeing that he was the only one left, Hanneman began to put in more effort. He didn’t give the remaining students a chance to heal and recover, sending waves of _Fire_, _Thunder_ and _Sagittae_ among other spells that Jeralt couldn’t recognise raining down from up on the platform where he stood.

“Hoho! Hanneman’s getting competitive now!” Alois said cheerfully. “Say, Jeralt, think that your remaining students can take him down?”

He studied the battlefield. As it was, the paths available for the students to take to Hanneman weren’t to their advantage. It was open ground, lacking cover from which they could avoid his spells. Any carelessness as they advanced would translate into heavy losses on their part.

To that end, it seemed that Byleth ordered a tactical retreat. They hid further out away from Hanneman’s platform, and he stopped lobbing down spells onto the students. It was a stalemate.

“Twenty gold says Hanneman’s got this,” Alois said. “Byleth’s good, but his team is at a disadvantage here.”

“You’re on,” Jeralt said immediately. To someone who didn’t know what Byleth was capable of, it would have been a good bet, but Jeralt knew better. He suspected that there was still more that Byleth hadn’t revealed.

“That much confidence in your son, Captain?” Alois chuckled. “We’ll have to see, I guess.”

There was a lull in the battle as his students remained hiding in the trees, staying out of sight of both those up on the cliffs and Hanneman down below. Jeralt took the chance to talk to Alois regarding the topic he’d spent the most time dwelling on recently.

“Alois.”

“Hmm?” he turned, looking away from the battlefield. “Yes, Captain Jeralt?”

“What do you think about Byleth?”

“Your son? Potential for great puns aside, I’d say that it’s obvious that he’s skilled. You trained him well, Jeralt.”

He shook his head, letting a little vulnerability show. “He’s been showing abilities that I hadn’t taught him, Alois. To be honest, I’m a little worried.”

“You, Captain?” Alois looked at him incredulously. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep a good eye on him when he becomes my squire. You have my word, Jeralt.”

Alois was taking him seriously. Jeralt appreciated that greatly, knowing how dependable the man was in his time as his direct superior. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s nothing between friends, right? Besides –“ he cut off halfway, pointing out into the field. “Look!”

Jeralt turned. Claude had moved out of the trees. What plan had they concocted?

“OI! PROFESSOR MONOCLE!” Claude shouted, his voice carrying up even to the cliffs where Jeralt was watching from. “OVER HERE!”

“…what?” Alois managed to say. Spells were in motion toward the boy, as he hurriedly ran off to one side.

_A distraction._

Byleth and Hilda stepped out of the trees on the other side from where Claude emerged. Hanneman turned to look toward them, a glyph manifesting in the air as he prepared another set of spells.

Then Byleth held Hilda’s hands in his own, and she disappeared from existence.

“It’s _Warp!” _Alois shouted, pointing up to Hanneman’s platform.

Hilda stood behind him, her axe in motion even as Hanneman turned around after comprehending what had just transpired. Her axe stopped just shy of his neck, as the spell that was forming on his fingertips fizzled out of existence. He exchanged some words with the girl, before she relinquished her weapon from his side.

His students up on the cliff burst into cheers. Alois offered his own words of congratulations.

“_Warp_ as well now? I must say, Byleth has far exceeded my expectations. Why in Fódlan haven’t you recommended him as a squire before this?” he asked.

Jeralt frowned. More mysteries. “Watch over him for me, Alois,” he beseeched instead.

He snorted. “You don’t need to ask, but after seeing something like this? I’d say he could watch my back as well.”

He watched as the students made his way back up the cliff, joining the rest of their class. He had some final words to say to Alois before meeting with his students.

“By the way, Alois?” Jeralt waited for him to turn toward himself. He wouldn’t want to miss Alois’ reaction. “You owe me twenty gold.”

He smirked at the spluttered sounds Alois made. It brought back memories of the old days when he’d been a knight and Alois a squire. Still, he wouldn’t want to go back to that time.

Back then, he hadn’t had Byleth. Seeing the performance that he just showed, Jeralt wouldn’t give up what he had in the present for anything in the world.

Of course, Alois just _had _to ruin his moment of sentiment.

“Surely you meant _By-_leth _the way_, Captain?”

Jeralt sighed.

-o-o-o-

It was the weekend at the beginning of the Harpstring Moon, and Byleth was starting to regret the general plan he made for this life.

“Claude,” Byleth intoned calmly, betraying none of his inner irritation. “What is this?”

“Reporting for duty, sir!” he snapped a cheeky salute, before slouching over. “Training, honorary Teach! You said you’d help me out.”

“I know that,” Byleth sighed, rubbing his fingers against his eyes. “What I mean is why you’ve brought _half your class_ with you.”

He swept his hands all around the training ground that was currently more packed with his students than Byleth had ever seen, even after counting the time that Thunder Catherine herself had volunteered to teach them in a life long since passed.

“You and Ignatz use a bow,” he said, then pointed to Lysithea. “She uses magic. Raphael punches. Leonie fights with a lance and bow. For that matter, why are _all _of you here?” He finished with a flourish, gesturing at the few students from the Black Eagle and Blue Lion Houses that were somehow in attendance at a training session initiated by Claude that was meant for, he quoted verbatim, ‘_some pointers to help with his archery_’.

“Well, you see,” Caspar said nervously, fidgeting with his hands. “Petra heard Leonie telling Raphael about this, and then Petra told me about it. Then I thought, you know, since you’ll be tagging along with us for our mission this month, why not come along and see if you’d help us out as well?”

“I am having great joy in coming here, Byleth!” Petra chipped in, already preparing to string her bow with her usual enthusiasm. “You have performed in the mock battle and demonstrated that you are full of skill!”

“Skilful,” he corrected automatically. That was acceptable, he supposed.

Very surprisingly, Alois had informed him that he would be joining the Black Eagles in their mission to Zanado where Kostas was in hiding. He’d have thought that his father’s class would be taking on that mission, but in some twist of fate the class that he participated in the mock battle with _hadn_’_t_ been selected to take on that mission.

That never happened in his previous lives. Already, his new life was having some strange changes. Then again, since there wasn’t the supposedly inexperienced professor this life around, perhaps they’d randomly assigned a professor to the task rather than allocating the easiest mission to the rookie.

“That accounts for you two,” he said to the two Black Eagle students. “What about Ashe and Ingrid?”

“Ingrid and I were in the library when Claude went to find Ignatz!” Ashe informed him excitedly, bobbing his head. “He said you could help with archery, and that you would be willing to train with us as well. On the way here, we bumped into Leonie, and _she_ said you were good with lances, so Ingrid decided to come as well!”

“I hope it’s no trouble, Byleth,” Ingrid said apologetically. “We don’t mean to impose.”

“It’s fine,” he waved them off. “Alright. Look, it’s not that I don’t want to help you guys out, but I don’t see how I can work with all nine of you. That’s before even considering that you all use different weapons.”

Ashe gave such a look of disappointment at that statement that Byleth considered how he could go about this, drawing on the experiences he had as a professor. This was an _excellent_ opportunity to foster some inter-House relations that he wouldn’t willingly pass up. Goddess knows how badly they would need it once the sparks of war began to flare.

“The way I see it, you can either do some independent training and I’ll go around to give some pointers, or set up mock battles for you to take part in and observe from the side. It’s not the best, but –“

“Let’s put it to a vote!” Claude spoke for the group, then followed up immediately. “Mock battles it is!”

“I’m fairly sure the point of a vote is to give people a chance to have their say.”

“It is? No one told me.”

Byleth sighed, looking around at the others. Ignatz and Ashe were fidgeting just a little uncomfortably, probably not expecting the sudden change in plans, but if they were unhappy with Claude’s decision, they made no move to show it.

“Fine, then. We’ve got an odd number of people, so I’ll set it up as a four versus four battle,” he informed them, thinking through how to balance between training outcomes and his secret master plan of bringing the three Houses together. “Lysithea, you’re the only one who uses magic here. Would you mind sitting this one out? It might be easier to help with spellcasting outside of battle, anyway.”

She nodded. “It’s what I was hoping for as well. I just need some pointers with the spell, and I can work out the rest.”

Ah, Lysithea. She always tried too hard to be independent at the start of his loops. He recalled fond times during the war when they’d stayed for hours on end working on scraps of parchment as they built on each other’s expertise to refine their spellwork.

“I’ll have you work on the spell and try it out on some practice dummies. The rest of you, I’ll be splitting you up into groups. Claude, Raphael, Ingrid and Petra are one group. Caspar, Ashe, Ignatz and Leonie will be the other.”

“Mixing us up, eh honorary Teach?” Claude shook his head. “Fine with me. Team Claude, assemble!”

They split off into their newly-formed groups. He tried to keep the teams balanced, with two archers and two front-line fighters in each, but he knew that Petra and Leonie had options for both ranged and close-quarter combat.

“I’ll give you five minutes to discuss what sort of weapons or strategy you’ll be using. I’m the only healer at hand here, so _please_ don’t go overboard. Manuela will have my hide if I have to send any of you to the infirmary.”

With that matter temporarily settled, he addressed his remaining student. “Alright, Lysithea. What do you need help with?”

“It’s _Sagittae_,” she informed him. “I tried what you suggested, but even after double-checking my calculations with the correction factor the spell doesn’t work.”

She handed him some sheets of paper filled with lines and labelled diagrams of a familiar handwriting. He looked over them quickly, trying to find any errors in her work. As always, her work was impeccable.

“Seems alright to me,” he frowned. “Can you manifest the spell?”

Wordlessly, she raised her hand at a nearby training dummy, her face scrunching into focus. Rotating sigils appeared in the air – completely like his own _Sagittae_, thus far – before the matrix collapsed with a flash of light. Nearby heads turned to look at them, but seeing no further follow-up, they returned to their planning for the battle ahead.

She looked at him expectantly. “Any ideas?”

“Do it again? I need a closer look.” He stepped a little nearer toward her.

She complied, a few drops of sweat streaking down her face from the effort required. He formed his own _Sagittae _as she did so, eyes darting between the two glyphs.

Again, hers collapsed, while his own spell launched toward its target, blowing it backwards as it tore a gaping hole in its mid-section.

“Sorry. Again?” He thought he saw something. “If you’re not too tired, that is.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, although it was clear that her spell was taking a toll on her. “Fixing this is more important.”

The sigils formed, intersecting lines of the metaphysical substance that defined all Magic linking them together. They moved faster, and just as it was about to collapse –

There! The pattern that appeared!

The spell exploded into light once more. Lysithea panted from the effort, bending over slightly.

“You alright, Lysithea?” Claude asked in concern from one side, none of the playful teasing he normally took with her.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, then asked for Byleth’s opinion once more. “Well?”

“I might have something,” he admitted. “But I’m not too sure.”

Meanwhile, he thought of just what he’d seen and the implications it had. The first time he hadn’t been sure about what he’d noticed, but after seeing the spell once more he became more certain. Those were definitely the Crests of Charon and Gloucester that appeared just prior to the spell’s collapse.

“What is it?” she asked excitedly.

Come to think of it, Lysithea had _never_ used _Sagittae_ in a past life, not even in the lives where she became a Gremory or Dark Knight.

In fact, she hadn’t used Black Magic at all, preferring to go with Dark Magic spells. They were related, but slightly different branches of magic that were governed by Reason theory. Was this part of the reason why? Could it be that she _couldn’t_ use Black Magic?

In all his previous lives, he never further investigated Lysithea’s two Crests that came about from the Agarthans’ twisted blood experiments. It was selfish, but with the war always claiming his or her life before her own natural end, it just didn’t seem worth it to try and come up with a solution to her impending demise. How in all of Fódlan had he missed this? Lysithea was one of his dearest friends, for the Goddess’ sake!

Why hadn’t she told him about any of this before? Why hadn’t he noticed? They had spent so much time together, damn it!

Fuck, he was selfish. It was an observation so simple, something he could have seen and tried to help her with, and yet…

“Byleth?” she spoke with some concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Huh?” he snapped out of his thoughts. Since when had he clenched his fists? He relaxed slightly.

“Did you figure anything out?” she repeated.

“Lysithea,” he said instead. “What other spells do you know?”

“Huh?” she sounded confused, but recited them anyway. “_Miasma, Swarm, Luna…_ I’m working on _Dark Spikes_… I think I’m close to _Heal _and _Nosferatu_...”

“But no Black Magic?” he cut to the heart of the matter.

She started slightly, then looked at him with a slight hint of anger. Damn, he forgot that she hated appearing vulnerable. She was far better at this when she grew older. “No.”

“Why?”

Wordlessly, she conjured up a glyph of _Fire_. The spell took hold, glowing bright –

\- then it spat out the most pathetic gush of flame Byleth had seen from a mage with the amount of experience and knowledge of Reason theory that Lysithea had.

“Black Magic doesn’t _work_ well for me,” she admitted. “I’ve tried with _Fire _and _Thunder_, but I thought _Sagittae_ might be different, since it uses different elemental constituents.”

She glared at him challengingly, as though expecting him to belittle or to coddle her for that deficiency.

“That’s good,” he said. “Work with your strengths. I may have some suspicions about why Black Magic doesn’t work, but –“

“You do?” Her anger morphed abruptly into excitement. “Tell me!”

“Just a moment,” he told her, then looked over to the other two groups. “Lysithea and I need to discuss something. Carry on with your planning, I’ll be back soon.”

“USE PROTECTION, TEACH!” Claude shouted from where he was. Byleth pointedly ignored him as he led Lysithea to a corner, away from watchful eyes and ears.

“What’s this about?” she asked with some irritation, her cheeks only slightly red, no doubt following the obvious provocation from Claude. “I assume this has a purpose.”

How should he put it? Knowing Lysithea, she’d probably prefer the direct approach. She didn’t like people to view her as vulnerable.

“Lysithea,” he said, taking careful stock of her reactions. This was a sensitive subject. “I think this has to do with your Crests.”

She flinched. He continued, regardless. “Right before the _Sagittae_ collapsed, I saw the Crests of Charon and Gloucester appear in the Reinfordian spell-shell. When you used _Fire_, even though the matrix was entirely different, they still interfered with the magical geometry at another site. It’s possible that there’s an issue with control, but if you can use Dark Magic…”

He trailed off, thinking deeper into the problem. Edelgard also had two Crests, but he knew for a fact that she’d been capable of using _Fire_ and _Bolganone_. How could the issue be with Lysithea’s multiple Crests in that case?

Then again, Edelgard didn’t seem to have the same problem of a greatly reduced lifespan that Lysithea had. He also didn’t have any knowledge about just _how_ the Agarthan mages had accomplished such twisted feats. There were far too many assumptions here for him to make any logical conclusion with a good margin of certainty.

Reason theory just didn’t have very good explanation for Crests and their interactions. There was good reason for it; Crests came about from the very bodies of the Children of the Goddess, after all. Magic was more of a universal metaphysical constant, or so the scholars believed. Hanneman had tried endlessly to take on the challenge of coming up with an explanation for the unification of Crests and magic as understood by Reason theory, but he hadn’t ever done so successfully in Byleth’s many lives.

He broke out of his thoughts at just the quietest of sniffles. His head snapped downward, pausing at the sight of Lysithea putting on a brave face, even as her eyes reddened.

Goddess damn it.

“It always comes down to my Crests in the end, doesn’t it?” she spoke in a voice that was far too calm. “Thank you, Byleth. I’ll just –“

She trailed off, then turned around and began to walk away. He stepped forward quickly, grabbing her hand. Startled, she turned back to face him.

“Hey,” he cut in. “Lysithea. I don’t know about the circumstances behind your Crests, and I won’t pry.”

Liar_. _He already knew. He continued, “But I swear that I will keep helping you with this. I’m no expert on Crests, but I’m pretty good with Reason theory. This isn’t the end of it.”

Fuck, he’d discuss the issue with Hanneman and Linhardt if it came down to it. He thought that her Crests had only limited her lifespan, but to limit her _Magic_ as well? And to stay silent for the literal hundreds of lives that he’d spent by her side?

A traitorous part of him thought that if that problem were resolved, she would become even more formidable in battle, beyond the Gremory already capable of laying waste to entire battalions on her own. She would be invaluable in the war. He suppressed those selfish thoughts. _Friendship comes first._

“It’s my problem,” she protested. He ignored the way her voice sounded choked. “I need to deal with it.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Lysithea,” he snapped, showing some irritation for the first time in the conversation. He had a say in this too. She was about to retort, but he pressed on. “Anyone who can solve this on their own basically _unifies_ our knowledge of Crests and Reason theory. You’re intelligent; you know precisely what that means.”

He watched her eyes widen as understanding sank in. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty good with Black Magic,” he said, manifesting the glyph of the most complex spell he could think of without actually completing his cast.

“That’s _Agnea’s Arrow –“_

_“_It is, and I’ve been able to use that for some time,” he pressed on, as he forced the spell to wink out of existence. He’d learned it in, what, somewhere around his twentieth life? “And I can’t even _begin_ to think of an elegant hypothesis that combines the two fields together, much less test it. This isn’t something you can take on alone.”

She fell silent for a moment. “Then how?” she whispered. “You’re _Warlock_ level, at the very least, if you can cast _Agnea’s Arrow_.”

“Simple,” he said. “We’ll get help. Hanneman and Linhardt, and anyone else who knows anything about this.”

Hell, he would even willingly drag Edelgard into this under some false context to study her own Crests. By force, if necessary, if he couldn’t prevent her downward spiral into the crazed Emperor that would eventually willingly transform herself into a monster. Lysithea had been a constant in so many lives that it was utterly shameful he hadn’t ever helped her with this. To Ailell with the war. His friends came first.

He had many more lives to spare, anyway. Fódlan’s wars could take a break.

“Linhardt?” she made a face. “That boy from the Black Eagles? I didn’t think you knew him.”

He thought he saw the issue. “He doesn’t just nap all the time, you know. I saw him researching Crests in the library.” He’d been _the_ foremost expert on Crests during the war, Agarthans aside.

“Even so…” she looked downwards. “I don’t think it’s necessary to involve them…”

“Just keep it in mind,” he insisted. She was probably trying to keep just _how_ she came to have two Crests a secret. He hoped that at some point, she would trust him enough to divulge the truth behind her Crests that he’d heard before. “They’re experts on Crests. If not Linhardt, at least talk to Hanneman. Please.”

She’d talked to both of them in past lives, but that was more to do with her Crests. He didn’t think that they investigated how it linked with her magic before. Hopefully, they would have more luck with a new avenue of research.

“Maybe,” she deflected, then looked him directly in the eye. It was just a little less reddened now, thank the Goddess. “Why would you help me? You barely know me.”

“You’re my friend,” he said truthfully. Of course, he wasn’t about to spill everything to her.

“That can’t be all of it,” she insisted.

“True,” he admitted. “But I’m keeping that a secret, for now. I’m sure you have some of your own. Maybe when you’re ready to tell me your own secrets, I’ll tell you mine. For now, we’ll remain friends.”

“…Friends,” she agreed, after some consideration.

“Good.” He tried his best to give a comforting smile. “Do you want to continue with the training? The rest will be waiting for us.”

“I’ll do some studying of my own,” she said. Right, she probably didn’t want to be seen by the others in the state that she was. She nodded at him, posture straightening to what seemed more like her normal self. “Thank you for your help, Byleth.”

“Okay,” he told her. “Remember, Lysithea. You don’t have to take this on alone.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled, turning to leave the training ground.

Damn. That was intense.

_That took a bit longer than expected_, he thought as he rejoined the two groups of students.

Claude whistled. “Lysithea isn’t with you? I got to say, little Teach, you work _fast_.”

“Enough, Claude.” He wasn’t in the mood for such nonsense. He must have sensed his dour state, because Claude straightened up and took on a serious look. “Alright. Both teams, get to work.”

They executed their planned strategies. They weren’t bad, as far as he could tell. He felt a little guilty at being distracted thinking over how he could solve Lysithea’s problem as he watched their battle, but he already knew some of the mistakes to point out. Having had to teach all of these students at some point in the past was such a convenience.

He would give Lysithea a few weeks to mull over the issue. If she still didn’t approach Hanneman, he could do so himself. It wouldn’t earn him any points with her, but he’d taken up bigger burdens for his friends before.

He continued watching them half-heartedly. When the battle finally finished, with Claude’s team emerging the victor in a final one versus one fight between a tired Ingrid and Leonie, he offered his own pointers that had been collected from lives long past.

“Alright. Claude, you’re good with your draw speed, but your footwork and accuracy on the move needs some improvement. I’ll recommend some drills for you. Leonie, you need to…”

His suggestions were met positively by his former students, thank the Goddess. He had enough to deal with for one day after Lysithea’s revelation.

Following the training session, his newest problem took up most of his time. The days passed quickly, and before he knew it, Alois and the mission with the Black Eagles came knocking near the middle of the month.

This life may not have been going entirely as he planned, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Even though Sothis’ power would likely bring him back to Remire Village again at the end of this life, seeing as he’d spent more time on his not-students than actively working on the war, it would all be worth it in the end.

Part of him was ashamed that he couldn’t help but think of how invaluable she would be to _him_ in the war to come if the problem was resolved. He suppressed those thoughts, thinking hard about just why he still bothered to continue trying to save all of them after all these years. He had to believe in that.

What was one more death, if it meant helping his closest friends once this was all over?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (still cowering in trepidation)  
Think of the supports! Think of the puns! Ignore the handwavy pseudoscience bullshit! Suspend your disbelief! 
> 
> Not gonna lie, I thought my chapter title scheme was smart at first before realising how dumb it really was.


	5. Downstream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Downstream: adv, adj. situated or moving in the direction in which a stream or river flows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, screw it. Having a little block with my latest chapter, so I'm uploading the backlog that I've piled up while I was waiting for an ao3 invitation to set up this account.

Thankfully, Zanado wasn’t too far away from the monastery, with both being located within the Oghma Mountain range. Given the ease of the task, having to waste more time travelling wasn’t something that Byleth wanted to put up with.

“You’re looking deep in thought,” Alois commented by his side. “Smile! A knight brings joy wherever he goes!”

He proceeded to grin widely, emphasising his point. Byleth sighed. Alois had taken to his new position _very_ seriously, giving unsolicited advice on the conduct and behaviour of knights that were of dubious authenticity.

How was it even possible that this man had been his father’s squire in the past?

“You’re _exactly_ like Jeralt. Grouchy, moody and no appreciation for my jokes. He used to have some amazing ones of his own, but now he just acts all broody!” Alois huffed, giving up on his efforts at education. “At least talk to some of the students. Goddess knows how little interaction you’ve had with people your age, growing up with mercenaries and all.”

He had plenty, but if it meant getting away from yet another repeat of Alois terrible puns – that didn’t vary at all in all his lives, he would add – he would gladly do so.

“You sure about that?”

“Go, go,” he waved him off with the back of his hand. “The captain wanted me to have you interact with the kids, anyway.”

“He did?” Byleth asked in genuine interest. Jeralt usually didn’t interfere in his greater social wellbeing in his many past lives.

“He did,” he confirmed. “He also says that you’ve been spending some time with the other students. It’s a good quality to have; a knight must learn to fight with his comrades!”

He gave another round of booming laughter. “Go on, go on. We’ll be travelling for another hour, and I know when someone gets bored of my jokes.”

Alois flashed a knowing look at Byleth. He nodded. The pair made their way over to the larger group just slightly behind them, with Alois chatting idly with Manuela while Byleth slipped away toward the Black Eagle students.

“Hey, Byleth!” Caspar greeted as he neared, pausing from his conversation with Ferdinand.

“Caspar,” he returned. “Ferdinand.”

They had briefly exchanged introductions back during the mock battle a few weeks ago, but otherwise had no contact. Beyond Caspar and Petra at their unplanned training session, he was still essentially a stranger to them.

“You’re Byleth, right? The Blade Breaker’s son?” he said confidently. “Caspar speaks highly of your skills. You’ve certainly proven yourself when our Houses last fought.”

“You did well back during the mock battle, yourself,” Byleth said. Ferdinand always did have a sense of pride about himself. “It wasn’t a good matchup for your team. In a fair fight, you might have won.”

“Hmm,” he made a non-committal sound. “Be that as it may, I would much like to compare my abilities with yours. A noble such as I cannot rest on his laurels.”

“We can arrange something back in the monastery. In the meantime, how do you two feel about this mission?”

“Bandits?” Caspar asked as they trudged along the uneven surfaces of the mountain range. “Edelgard told us that you’ve fought them off before. This should be a piece of cake, right?”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” he agreed. “But will you be prepared to do what needs to be done?”

He didn’t remember exactly how Caspar had reacted to his first kills, having been some time since he last paid specific attention to the boy in their first mission, but Byleth took his own lack of a distinct impression as a sign that Caspar wouldn’t be too squeamish.

“You mean killing them?” Caspar asked a little hesitantly. “Well… I’m a little nervous, I guess, but it’s got to be done, right? It’s what we’re training for?”

“Indeed,” Ferdinand offered. “It is our duty as nobles and knights. These bandits have plagued the people of Fódlan for long enough.”

_Duty _and _nobility._ That could have summed up the basis of Ferdinand’s actions in his past lives, and Lorenz as well to some extent. For all that Ferdinand didn’t personally agree with the methods employed by the leaders of the faction he was aligned with, he always continued to fight out of a sense of duty to protect those under his charge.

“I hope you’re ready,” Byleth warned. “Taking a life is harder than it seems.”

“It is good to hear that you will be joining us, Byleth,” Edelgard’s voice cut in as she and Hubert joined in. “Your performance in the battle was exemplary. I look forward to working with you.”

Conversation with Edelgard was always a tricky matter. Reveal things he shouldn’t or react differently from how he should, and she and Hubert would grow suspicious of him. Reject all interaction whatsoever, and he wouldn’t have the chance to temper her mindset and soothe out the issues that would come to sustain the war. Striking a balance was always difficult, especially since too many things changed between his lives.

“I hope to learn from you as well. From what I’ve seen, though, this mission shouldn’t be a challenge for your House.”

“Oh?” she sounded intrigued. “In that case, forgive my rudeness, but why would Lady Rhea send you and Alois along with us?”

He shrugged. “I need experience as a squire. This was deemed a suitable first mission.”

“I see,” she said.

The group walked in silence for awhile. Normally, he’d be talking to his students about classes, life in the monastery and offering training tips, but conversation was hard when he wasn’t here in his capacity as a professor.

“Hey, Byleth?” Caspar finally spoke up, breaking the silence. “You know what you said the other day about how I’m not fighting properly? What did you mean by that?”

He could have thanked his former student for bringing up the topic. “It’s not so much about you not fighting _properly_ as it is not using your body to its maximum potential. With your frame, brawling the same way that Raphael does wouldn’t work well. Instead, you need to be more agile and wear down your opponent, and strike at vital locations.”

“Wear them down, huh?” he repeated, considering his words. “I guess that’s why Raphael won during our match at the training grounds?”

“Part of the reason, but yes.”

“What’s this?” Ferdinand asked. “Since when have the two of you trained together?”

“It was an impromptu thing,” Byleth denied. “It was supposed to be just a small session with Claude.”

“It was really useful!” Caspar told Ferdinand excitedly. “Petra and I learned a lot! Hey – Petra, isn’t that right?”

She paused in the middle of her conversation with Dorothea, Linhardt and Bernadetta, turning to look at them. They had a brief exchange of words, before her group joined theirs, Bernadetta squirming all the while, hiding off to one side.

“What is it, Caspar?” Petra asked.

“The training session with Byleth! It was really good, wasn’t it?”

She nodded. “I am having more understanding after participating. You are a fine warrior, Byleth.”

“It was nothing. You students did most of the work, anyway. I just provided some observations.”

“I do not have understanding. How can something be nothing if it is already being happened?” She asked in confusion.

“It’s a figure of speech,” Caspar explained helpfully.

“How can speech have a figure?” She shook her head. “Regardless, it was full of use in honing my skill with a sword. I had no idea that you were versed with Brigid swordplay.”

“I only know a little of it,” he said truthfully. He had picked up tips and general ideas from Petra a long time ago, but he had no idea that his rehashed and repackaged advice based on observations of her future self had an origin of its own. “In truth, I pick up a little of everything. I’m certainly no master.”

“Hey, Byleth! Would you mind helping me again some time soon? I really want to challenge Raphael to a rematch,” Caspar requested.

“I would be liking to have more advice as well,” Petra nodded.

“If you do, count me in,” Ferdinand spoke. “I would not pass up a chance to improve my abilities.”

“Why don’t we all train together?” Caspar suggested excitedly, looking around at the group. Typical Caspar. He was far too enthusiastic in this matter that he hadn’t asked Byleth whether _he_ was willing to do it at all.

Not that he would refuse, of course. This would be a great way to begin working on his plan of intermingling with the Houses.

“NOPE!” Bernadetta squeaked, slowly cowering away as heads turned toward her. “Uh… not that you’re scary or anything Byleth, but… ah…”

Her voice trailed off as she backed further and further away. Byleth sighed internally. How did he ever think it was a good idea to try and deal with the issues of not one, but _three_ Houses?!

“Come on, Bernadetta! It’ll be fun!” Caspar urged. “You should have seen the advice he gave Caude, Ignatz and Ashe for working with bows!”

“Bows? You’re an archer as well? A Sniper? A Bow Knight?_”_ she asked curiously, then gasped. “Or… an _Assassin? _Are you here to kill me?! Bernie’s on to you!”

She fixed him with a glare made of equal parts terror and intimidation, and Byleth could honestly say that he had no idea how to respond.

“Just think about it, Bernadetta,” Caspar groaned. He turned toward the rest. “Hey! What about you guys?”

“Truly?” Edelgard spoke. “I must admit, that does sound interesting.”

“If Lady Edelgard deems it suitable, I shall be willing to attend,” Hubert said, his stare never straying from Byleth all the while. _Evaluating a potential threat, as always._

“Hmm…” Dorothea hummed in consideration, looking at Byleth. He got the feeling that she was assessing him for more than just his skill in combat. Given that he wasn’t a noble or _anyone_ of importance, really, it was unlikely that he would become the subject for one of her future plans. He hoped so, at least; he certainly didn’t have the time for that. Not to mention that he was probably more than ten times her age. “I think it’s a good idea, Caspar. We’ve all got certification exams coming up, anyway.”

“Great!” Caspar cheered. “What about you, Linhardt?”

“Huh?” he blinked, looking around toward Caspar’s eager face from the book he had been reading while walking. He yawned. “Sounds tiring. I’d much rather be taking a nap.”

“Hey!” Caspar scolded. “Come on! It’s going to be _really_ good!”

“But Caspar –“ his glare only intensified, and Linhardt gave up, probably after careful consideration of the trade-off between nap-time and continued bugging from Caspar. “Alright, fine, I suppose.”

“Great! That’s all of us!” he gave an excited whoop, ignoring Bernadetta’s ‘_HEY!’ _from the back. Then, he froze as he looked at Byleth. “If that’s alright with you, Byleth?”

Byleth gave an amused snort. “_Now_ you ask? Sure.”

“Great! We –“

“I’ll have some rules of my own, though,” he interrupted. The students looked toward him curiously. “I want to mix you up with students of other Houses. We’ll make a list of interested students, and come up with a schedule for when everyone is available.”

“Why?” Edelgard asked. “I mean no offense, but would that not be more difficult to arrange?”

“It’s more useful. You’ll be working with each other for missions during your time in the monastery, but you’ll need to work with others from outside your House after graduation. It’s a good chance to learn from each other.” _Not to mention that you’d be more willing to discuss things diplomatically once the war comes. _

“I see.” She frowned. If she had any disagreements, she didn’t voice them.

“It will be fine, Professor – err, Byleth!” Caspar looked at him apologetically at the mix-up. Byleth had honestly only noticed it after his correction; he was far too used to his former title to care. “I’ll find Raphael and Felix at the training grounds and get them to help out with their Houses!”

“Okay. Let me know what the consensus is, and I’ll have to check my own schedule with Alois. I might have more missions coming up.”

“Sure thing, Byleth!”

He shook his head. He’d taken the effort to change how he was going to be doing things, but ended up in a position so eerily similar to where he’d been before.

For the first time in a while, he was feeling hopeful about this plan. In his previous lives as a Professor, getting the Houses to work together was done mostly through face-to-face conversations over dinners and teas, but getting the students themselves to mingle together this early into the year hadn’t been done before. He would need to see this experiment through, and see if it was something worth replicating in future lives.

He was concerned, though. If he went through with this, trying to bring the Houses together in this way as a neutral party, he wouldn’t have the time to move around across Fódlan on his own to deal with the bigger issues. Some he could easily prevent – he would need to write to House Gautier at some point to inform them anonymously of Miklan’s upcoming theft, for example – but assassinations of more important individuals like Cornelia and Arundel might prove to be difficult.

He would cross that bridge when the time came. He had another ten months before the assault on the monastery, plenty of time in which he could work. For now, he had other priorities.

-o-o-o-

Finishing off Kostas and the remnants of his bandit group went with the same ease as it had in the past. The students were confronted with the reality behind taking the lives of their enemies, but Manuela and Alois had taken the time to talk to them and allow them to process their actions. He was relieved; he wouldn’t need to personally intervene there.

The days passed quickly, as he went back to working on Lysithea’s problem. Using the excuse of discussing Crests, he had developed a new (old?) friendship with Linhardt, discussing in vague terms about how Crest and Reason theory could be reconciled. They didn’t manage to make any breakthroughs, however. This wasn’t something that could be easily tackled by academy students.

The rest of his time was spent on training and working on the newest development in his plan to force the Houses to work together. As it turned out, scheduling was proving to be harder than he thought.

In his previous lives, he was concerned mostly in the dealings of his chosen House, and neglected to keep up with the dealings of other Houses. Now, though, he appreciated just how diverse their missions were. He’d always been on the same standard missions – fighting off the bandits, putting down the mutiny, protecting the Holy Mausoleum during the Rite of Rebirth; they never varied.

Now, he was finding out just how difficult it was trying to find a time when all the students would be back in the monastery once again. Even if he worked with two Houses at a time, the first available common window would be following their second mission.

It was this second mission that Alois was probably now going to be briefing him about, having asked for his presence in the captain’s quarters. He was genuinely curious – would he once again be putting down the revolt by Lord Lonato, or would there he something else in store for him?

“Ah! Good to see you, Byleth!” Alois greeted as Byleth entered. Hanneman was also present in the room, giving him a wide smile.

He’d be working with the Blue Lions, then. With the completion of this mission, he would have worked with all three Houses already. This life was full of surprises.

“Alois. Professor Hanneman,” he returned their greetings. “Will this be about the upcoming mission?”

“Indeed. Seteth has just informed us about what lies in store for us,” Hanneman said. “It appears that a minor Lord in the Gaspard Region of the Kingdom, Lord Lonato, has instigated a rebellion against the Church within his territory, claiming falsehoods about Lady Rhea. We’ve been ordered to suppress it.”

So, the same as always, then. But that would also mean…

_Ashe._

He’d forgotten. He was so used to his new position, so involved with managing his own training and working on new issues from this life, that he’d _forgotten_. In the few lives where he was willing to take on the role of professorship in charge of the Blue Lions, he tried his best to keep Ashe away from this particular mission. There was no need for him to see his own adoptive father fall in battle, or worse, to have to kill him with his own hands.

“A rebellion?” he feigned surprise. “Is this something that students should be taking on?”

“Not to worry, Byleth!” Alois said jovially with his usual booming voice. “In truth, local knights will be handling the majority of the matter. We will simply be cleaning up the aftermath. Besides, we shall be joining Professor Hanneman’s students, along with some of my best knights. We will be more than prepared for anything that Castle Gaspard can throw at us.”

Damn. How could he try and keep Ashe away from this?

“You mentioned Lord Lonato and Castle Gaspard, isn’t he…” he allowed his voice to trail off.

“Young Ashe’s adoptive father, yes,” Hanneman said regretfully, shaking his head. “But I’m afraid it has to be done. We simply cannot allow this rebellion against the Church to gain traction.”

“Can’t another House take charge of this mission?”

“They’ve already been assigned missions, Byleth,” Alois said kindly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m afraid we have no choice. We will try our best to persuade Lord Lonato to surrender, but he may not be so willing.”

“Because of Christophe,” Byleth stated.

“Because of Christophe Gaspard, yes. You are well-informed, Byleth.”

“We’ll at least keep Ashe from watching Lonato die?” He knew just precisely how _painful_ it was watching a loved one die, even if their deaths were a necessity. He had been forced to do so countless times before. _Ferdie, Edelgard, Dorothea, Caspar, Felix…_

Their blood was on his hands. He wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone else, and certainly not to someone as pure and innocent as Ashe.

“We will try our best.”

“Okay,” Byleth said, closing his eyes in acceptance briefly. “Okay. Fine.”

“I’m sorry it’s not ideal, Byleth,” Alois said in genuine sadness. “Unfortunately, such is the life of a Knight of Seiros. You will need such experience in the future as well, if you continue down this path.”

Did he think that he was having second thoughts about the mission? Funny, he’d been the one to personally kill Lord Lonato hundreds of times when the man just wouldn’t surrender. He understood Lonato’s resolve, seeing as Catherine herself led the group to put down the revolt. If ever faced with his hypothetical son’s executioner, Byleth would likely have done the same.

Wait.

_Catherine?_

“What about Thunder Catherine?” he asked suddenly as the thought struck him.

“What _about_ Catherine?” Alois looked confused. “I’m not surprised you know of her, but why the sudden question?”

Alois shook his head, continuing regardless. “The last I heard, she was recently deployed on a mission somewhere in the Empire. Were you intending to ask her for pointers on becoming a knight?” He laughed heartily. “I can assure you, though I may certainly not compare to her prowess, I am no slouch myself! Take the advice I’ve given you and you’ll become a knight in no time!”

Meanwhile, Byleth was stunned.

No Catherine?

_No _Catherine?

That seemed almost impossible. Hundreds of lives he’d lived, and she would always show up for this mission. Even when he didn’t become a professor, hiding away in a remote village somewhere else, or in his previous life where he’d become an assassin, she _always_ _went on that mission._ He’d accepted it as an inviolable fact like so many others, whether they be due to time, fate, the will of the Goddess or some other cosmic force.

What changed?

There was only one obvious answer. It was _him_. Labile though the whims of fate and time may be, their intermingling streams flowed around him through the power that Sothis had granted him.

What did he do? He looked back at his actions in this life, thinking furiously. He became a squire, giving up his previous role as professor. Alois took up his new responsibility eagerly, accommodating his mission schedule for his new squire, which meant…

Had Alois taken on what was supposed to be Catherine’s mission, so that Byleth could take on _this_ mission together with the students? Would Catherine be given one of Alois’ future missions in return?

“Byleth?” Hanneman’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, then spoke with more clarity, making up an easy excuse for his distraction. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s just with how Catherine killed Christophe Gaspard, I just thought…”

“You thought that she would take responsibility for this?” Alois asked in understanding. “I suppose that might make sense, although she’s well-known for putting down revolts without mercy.” He shook his head. “Regardless, what’s done is done, and we have to take on this mission.”

Plans had to change. Already, gears were turning in his head.

“When do we leave?” he asked.

“It is best to stop this before he gains any more support. Seteth would like for us to leave in two days. I trust that you will be ready?” Hanneman asked, raising an eyebrow.

It was a little earlier than he was used to, probably because Alois was now available to lead the mission rather than Catherine. It certainly fit with his previous hypothesis, since he remembered distinctly that Catherine had only returned at the end of the month to lead the mission against Lonato.

Regardless, he would be ready all the same. He’d performed this mission hundreds of times before.

“Understood. May I take my leave?”

Alois nodded. “I’ll be stationed here until we head off for our mission, so come along if you have any questions. If I’m not around, perhaps try the fishing pond!” Once again, he laughed. “I’ve heard that there’s some big fish around now! Jeralt and I used to spend all our free time there…”

His voice trailed off wistfully. “Anyway, find me if you need anything.”

Byleth took that as his cue to leave. With a final respectful nod to the pair, he made his way back to his room.

Byleth didn’t know whether Lonato was being manipulated to raise his rebellion or had conspired together with the Agarthans, given the presence of the decoy plan to assassinate Lady Rhea on his person. Most claimed that the revolt was spurred on by the Western Church, given that the rebellion was based on the denouncement of Rhea as an apostate, but Byleth believed in Agarthan involvement. It was simply too much of a coincidence for them to attempt stealing from the Holy Mausoleum under the distraction provided by the planted letter.

Edelgard had seemed genuinely suspicious of the missive in earlier lives, and had previously contributed to their final decision to guard the Holy Mausoleum. She was either knowingly sabotaging the Agarthan faction, had no knowledge of their hand in this, or was somehow brilliantly feigning ignorance in a master plan with goals that Byleth couldn’t fathom.

The most likely scenario was simple ignorance; the Agarthans and their allies would be so much more powerful if they had the Sword of the Creator on their side, after all, especially since they turned out to be capable of reviving _Nemesis_. Either that, or she knew of their involvement but chose to sabotage them anyway, thinking that her own methods would be sufficient to achieve her goals. For all that she desired to break the Church, she wasn’t too keen on the methods used by the Agarthans.

Lonato never lived long enough for Byleth to find out the truth of just why he raised the rebellion. But this time…

No Thunderstrike Cassandra meant that Lonato would be less enraged to the point where he would fight to the death. Ashe would be present, as would be two other survivors of the Tragedy of Duscur. He didn’t know exactly how Lonato viewed his adopted son, but Ashe’s admiration and gratitude toward the man suggested he was at the very least the slightest bit fond of Ashe.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he might be willing to consider a surrender without Catherine’s provocation present in this life. Some explanation and half-truths behind the Church, Rhea, Duscur and any manipulation that he might be under from the Agarthans could help to defuse the tension as well.

If there was even a shot at making Lonato stand down, Byleth would give everything for it. With Lonato’s testimony about a secondary cause for the rebellion, Rhea may just be more willing to believe his words behind Fódlan’s true threats when the time came that he earned some of her trust.

More importantly, there was also a chance of Lonato _living_, strange as it sounded, after having watched him die in life after life. Ashe deserved that happy ending. Byleth would try his best to fight for it. He owed him that, after having failed his student in all his lives.

He stood there, on the staircase landing, fighting against the deluge of memories he fought so hard to learn to control.

His first life. _Ashe struggling feebly atop the blistering stones of Ailell, still clutching his bow in his hand, an arrow slipping out of his shaking grip. He spoke, his words heard with precise clarity despite the battle raging all around. “Lord Lonato… I am sorry…”_

His third._ Ashe, falling from atop the battlements of Garreg Mach Monastery, crashing to the ground with an audible crunch as the winged demonic beast flew back toward the skies. Byleth rushed over, a Heal already prepared on his fingertips, but Ashe…_

_He was already dead._

_The next life, Byleth learned the Physic. He wasn’t ever really any good at it._

Ninth. _Ashe, his body pierced by arrows, still returning fire against Empire archers on the Gronder Fields from where Byleth watched on the side of the Alliance army, battling against his own section of Empire soldiers. He longed to run over, to cut a bloody swathe through everyone in his way – twelve foot-soldiers, three mounted cavaliers, two mages – but that would take far too much time. Ashe was technically an enemy, but he had been his friend…_

_When the battle was finally over, Ashe was just barely clinging to his last breaths. The Empire had retreated, the Kingdom forces had been all but wiped out. It was a massacre, just as it had been before. He reached his dying student. _

_“Professor…” he coughed weakly. “This… all of… why?”_

_“I’m sorry,” he said, kneeling before the pale boy. His eyes stung. “I’m so sorry, Ashe.”_

_“Hah… You’re… crying… Professor. Don’t… hah…” he wheezed, eyes twitching all the while. “Lord… Lonato… I’ll be see – see…”_

_No more words made it through. Byleth took hold of his body gently. He and other students that lost their lives here deserved a proper funeral and grave, not the mass pyre that awaited all the rest that fell in the battle. _

Then came his twelfth… his nineteenth…

A number he had long-since lost count of, but the images still vivid all the same…

-o-o-o-

Their party was nearing Magdred Way, where Byleth knew Lonato’s forces would be preparing an ambush. The students were silent during the trek toward Castle Gaspard, each of them distracted within their own thoughts. Hanneman and Alois led the group, with even the normally jovial knight’s spirits dampened by the dour mood of the students under his charge.

Byleth took a glance at the Blue Lion students, gauging their readiness for this battle. It was rare, but some of his students had very occasionally lost their lives in this battle when Byleth had still been inexperienced with the time loop. Such a repeat _could not_ afford to happen here.

Dimitri was conflicted, as always, a clear sign of his thoughts warring between the necessity of putting down the rebellion and having to kill commonfolk that rallied under Lonato’s banner. Dedue showed no signs of such hesitation, ready to do purely as his prince commanded.

Felix appeared nonchalant, but Byleth knew better. His student may have put on a façade of detachment following the death of his brother, but he above all the others valued the sanctity of human life. His conviction mirrored Byleth’s own, being willing to do what was necessary with a heavy heart.

Likewise, Sylvain didn’t seem troubled beyond the slightest frown tugging at his lips. In past lives, Byleth had never noticed any particular issues with Sylvain in this battle, and hoped that this life would be similar.

Mercedes and Annette were a different matter altogether. He hadn’t been particularly close to the pair, both due to his lesser interaction with the Blue Lions and their tendency to stick together. They also didn’t have major issues that needed his attention and could change the course of the war, and so he’d opted to focus on working with others in past lives.

For all that Mercedes was sweet and honest, getting a clear read on her at times like this was difficult. He had no idea if her continued gentle and calm smile was due to a lack of apprehension on her part, or if she was merely hiding it away. Annette was bouncing around jitterily, looking around nervously as the group made their way toward Castle Gaspard, but Mercedes had a calming influence on her. He didn’t think he would have cause to be worried.

Unlike the rest, Ingrid didn’t show signs of such worry or fear. She held herself up to the values of a stereotypical knight, working diligently for the good of the kingdom. Besides, Christophe had been executed for his alleged role in inciting the Tragedy of Duscur, and Byleth knew that Ingrid held no pity for any who would associate with those responsible for the massacre. Glenn Fraldarius’ death had hit her in a vastly different way than it had Felix.

Then, of course, there was Ashe, the one that Byleth had been most worried about. He was moving distractedly, stumbling every few steps, his posture and gait clumsy. It was something that Byleth was immensely familiar with.

He’d seen so many of his former students and the men under his command in such a state during the war. Loss and confusion hit people in different ways, and Ashe was prone to dwelling and becoming lost in a spiral of worry and uncertainty without someone to anchor him.

“Hey,” he said quietly, not wanting to spook Ashe as he made his way to his side. “Ashe.”

He didn’t respond initially, only turning his head to look at Byleth after he’d nearly stumbled once more. “Byleth? Sorry, I’m…”

Ashe didn’t elaborate further. His eyes were downcast, attire unkempt. They’d only had a few days to react to the mission, not quite the time frame of an entire month that Byleth had been used to. Ashe had always taken some time to process just what it entailed, but in his current state Byleth didn’t know whether he could see this mission through.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready, you know,” he told the younger boy. “The rest of us will be able to handle this.”

“No,” Ashe said, shaking his head. He turned toward Byleth, and some of that sense of loss had dissipated, being replaced with a little bit of conviction that Byleth knew well. “No,” he repeated.

“Lord Lonato… he was always so kind, but to go against the Church and Rhea like this… I…” he closed his eyes, steeling himself for a moment. When they opened once more, he saw the unyielding courage and determination that had burned within his former student in past lives. “I’m Lord Lonato’s adopted son. I have to see for myself why he would choose to do such a terrible thing. And if he doesn’t give up, I…”

His voice quieted, but each word was enunciated steely all the same. “It will be my responsibility as his son to make things right.”

His student always took up far too much of a burden for himself, even in the future where he would come to fight for Lord Lonato’s memory. He was proud of the boy, but he hoped that events wouldn’t proceed as they had in past lives. “Remember, you don’t have to do this alone.”

Ashe seemed startled for a moment, but nodded shortly thereafter. Byleth gave a final firm pat on his shoulders, then moved to join Alois and Hanneman. In silence, the group entered Magdred Way proper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't know how to pace the story properly once the premise had been set up, so you get this. Oops.  
Also, I don't actually know how Edelgard/Flame Emperor fit in with the whole Holy Mausoleum bit, since in the BE route she straight up tells you to go there and to avoid pissing off the Death Knight. I'm going to work on the assumption that she doesn't actually want her allies to claim Seiros' presumed remains/the Sword and work from there.


	6. Meander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meander: n. a winding curve or bend of a river or road;  
v. (of a river or road) follow a winding course;  
n. an indirect or aimless journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the sudden chapter dump!  
(And I mean dump. Like what you do on the potty.)
> 
> Probably going to have had some details wrong, since I've not actually played the Blue Lions route yet. If you find any let me know and I'll try and edit it while waiting for inspiration to write the next chapter.

“Captain!” one of Alois’ knights shouted, his horse galloping rapidly toward them as the party trudged onward in the middle of Magdred Way. “The enemy is approaching! They can’t be avoided!”

“What?!” Alois demanded, pausing in the middle of the retelling of one of his past missions to Hanneman. Damn! How could he be so careless? “How?”

“They went through the fog cover, sir!” the knight followed with his report, his rapid breaths a sign of his exertion. That man worked hard; he deserved a good break once this was all over, Alois decided. “They’ve sneaked past the local knights out of Castle Gaspard, and they’re about to ready an attack!”

“Damn,” Alois swore, but recovered his composure quickly. He needed to remain calm for both the knights and the students following them. And Byleth as well, of course. The Captain wouldn’t forgive Alois if anything happened to his son. “Alright. Hanneman, take charge of your students. Knights, with me!”

The professor nodded, moving toward the back of their group to inform the students of their new mission. Young Byleth was by his side, his sword already drawn. Jeralt sure instilled good instincts into his son, seeing as he didn’t look the least bit worried about the battle to come. He was a squire only in name; his abilities had far surpassed those of some of his knights.

It was good that he wouldn’t need to worry about his young charge. Alois didn’t waste a moment, quickly studying the battlefield that they would be forced to fight in.

“Forests and fog,” he muttered under his breath, analysing the situation. Magdred Way was well known for its heavy fog, but this was far denser than he’d been led to believe.

Granted, he hadn’t ever personally had to pass through this path, but his lessons in knighthood had covered a great many accounts of past military engagements. This location was notorious for ambushes, with armies and bandit gangs alike abusing the poor visibility and natural cover of the forest to engage in raids on unsuspecting forces. He _should_ have suspected such a thing; the annals of history were literally filled with such engagements! Damn it! Why didn’t he see it coming?

Hindsight was pointless. Jeralt, Rhea and Seteth could chew him out later, once he, his men and his students were safely returned to the monastery. _If_ _he returned_, a dark part of his mind reminded.

No. He had to take responsibility here. They would live to see this day through.

Right, forest and fog. His men would be sitting ducks in a place like this. Hmm, ducks, fishing, how could he…

He could feel a pun coming along, but he ignored the urge to think of one. The situation was far too dire for this. _Lives_ depended on him.

“We need to stick together. Stay clear of the forests. Lonato’s ready for this, he’d have sent men to wait under the cover of the trees. We can’t afford to be ambushed,” he reasoned. “More of the local knights will reinforce our position, once they realise Lonato’s escaped from them. He has to take the initiative on this. Raise defensive formations, and buy time.”

Was it the right call? Is this what Jeralt would have done, given the situation?

“Understood, captain!” his second in command gave a brisk salute, then began to organise the troops. “You heard the captain! DEFENSIVE FORMATIONS!”

His knights were well trained. Without wasting any time, they moved to obey his orders.

They didn’t have many mounted cavalry, given the original intention behind their mission, but they didn’t really matter here. Organised charges were hardly useful in an ambush like this. His few foot-soldiers stood by the periphery, donning heavy armour with shields raised to protect the more vulnerable archers, mages and students in the core of their formation.

They were far too few in number to cover all possible routes of attack, but he trusted in his men to be able to react to an enemy attack. If it came down to it, he knew that they would lay down their lives to buy time for the students to retreat. It shouldn’t come to that; Lonato wouldn’t have access to those kinds of resources.

The sound of a battle-horn echoed across the still battlefield. Alois readied the axe in his hand, staring unblinkingly ahead as the sound of rapid footfalls grew louder. “Steady,” he ordered calmly, letting none of his inner indecision show. Any lives lost this day would be on his hands. He hoped beyond hope that they would only be those on Lonato’s side.

The first of the ambushing forces approached. A young man, barely older than the students, in common farmer’s clothes, holding a chipped sword as he charged furiously toward their party without care for his own life. More broke through from the fog, some of them commonfolk, others clearly soldiers.

“For Lonato! Death to the false witch!” the commoner yelled, raising his sword in a clumsy strike.

Alois didn’t close his eyes as he met his ungraceful assault, the cutting edge of his axe biting deep across his torso.

No time for hesitation. His men counted on him.

“Stay in formation!” he shouted. Nearby, one of his men sunk into the ground, his knees meeting the wet soil with a heavy thud. An arrow had found its way into the joint where the armour plates on his chest joined together. Without any input on his part, some of his knights hurriedly rushed him toward the centre, where the healers could tend to him.

They needed to weather the assault. In the fog, he saw the shapes of the approaching forces hesitate, probably having second thoughts about charging into their defensive line. That was good. Once the reinforcements arrived, they would most likely surrender or retreat. These enemies didn’t need to give up their lives for such a foolish cause.

He took the chance to take stock of his own men. Some knights were already injured in the initial charge, but they were starting to rally. Hanneman was directing the students to help where they could, and Byleth had been by his side when this started.

“You doing alright, Byleth?” he asked, his gaze focused on the flickering forms within the fog.

He waited a second. Two. No response.

“Byleth?”

He let down his guard temporarily, quickly glancing around while still attempting to pay attention to the fog up ahead. That mop of blue hair so unlike Jeralt’s own was particularly distinctive, so why…

Where in the Goddess’ name had Byleth gone?

Oh, Goddess, Jeralt was going to _kill _him.

-o-o-o-

Byleth knew very well how Alois took to combat situations. Unlike Catherine, he favoured more defensive approaches, something that often surprised those that saw his simultaneously brash and affable nature as a sign of hot-headedness. In battle, he was a thinker, and his expertise and careful planning had successfully allowed for the defence of Garreg Mach Monastery in past lives. It was why he knew that Alois would carefully consider the situation, raise a defensive formation and wait out the ambush. There was only so many men that a minor Lord like Lonato could muster, after all.

Byleth knew even better how Alois often second-guessed himself. In past lives, he had put on a brave face after Jeralt’s many deaths when they inevitably came, but had privately confided to Byleth about his fear of not being able to live up to Jeralt’s reputation when succeeding his position, having been his former squire. He knew all the subtle signs to look out for to tell that he was focused entirely on thinking about the battle; the way his axe moved a little closer to his body, the way his eyes swept across the fog ahead.

It was why Byleth had a sudden change of plans. Most of the time, Catherine would order an advance through the fog as they made their way to Lonato, eliminating the fog by killing off his mages. If Alois was going to be staying put, plans needed to change.

“…raise defensive formations, and buy time,” Alois finished giving his orders. Byleth took the chance to slip away while Alois wasn’t taking notice of him.

Hanneman was just beginning to rally his students into formation, moving them around to where they would best be of use. Ashe looked determined, but his bow still shook as he held it in trembling hands.

Quietly, he slipped his way toward Ashe while he still hadn’t regrouped with the rest of his students. The fog was working wonders here, allowing him to traverse undetected.

“Ashe,” he said. The boy snapped around to look at him, eyes wide, bow still held shakily. “Easy, easy,” he soothed.

“Byleth?” he asked in relief. “I thought…”

He couldn’t waste time here. “Ashe. Do you trust me?”

“Huh?”

“I have an idea to avoid bloodshed today, but we need to move _now_,” he urged. Hanneman would soon be moving to reposition Ashe, and then his chance would be wasted. He could still attempt to convince Lonato on his own, but things would be much easier with Ashe present.

“What is this about?” he asked in confusion, eyes still darting into the fog. He didn’t need to, Byleth knew where Lonato’s troops were concentrated. The man never changed how he carried out his ambush in past lives, thank the Goddess.

“I’ll explain, but we need to _go_!” he saw a dim shape in the fog that looked vaguely like Hanneman, and tugged Ashe over. “The two of us. Please, trust me!”

“Byleth –“ he began saying in alarm, resisting against Byleth.

Damn. This wasn’t working. He needed to try a new approach, and fast. Any moment now, Hanneman would spot the pair of them, and Byleth wouldn’t be able to de-escalate the situation with Lonato.

_De-escalation._

“Did Felix or Dimitri tell you what I said back at the training grounds?” he blurted out abruptly. “About knights and fighting?”

“Knights?” Ashe questioned, clearly lost in the sudden change in topic. “Yeah… His Highness said that you think they should question orders, but –“

“Not that,” he interrupted quickly. “Fighting. About how the best way to fight is not to start one at all.”

“You want to convince Lord Lonato to stand down?” Ashe’s eyes widened, but then looked uncertain. “I’m not sure… he loved Christophe, and…”

“Damn it,” Byleth cursed. Hanneman was getting too near. “It’s now or never. Make your choice, fast!”

“Lord Lonato…” Ashe breathed. He looked at Byleth in the eyes. “You can convince him?”

“I think there’s a chance,” he said quickly. “But we need to take it _now_.”

“Alright,” Ashe muttered, voice steadying. “Alright. How?”

Thank the Goddess. “Follow me,” Byleth urged, dragging him by the arm with his free hand. A shape in the fog that might have been Hanneman almost crossed their paths. “Stick close to me. Don’t let go. Stay silent now, and don’t draw attention.”

Ashe almost opened his mouth to speak, but Byleth squeezed on his arm tightly. His words died in his throat, following wordlessly as Byleth made his way through the fog.

After hundreds of lifetimes, he knew precisely where Lonato’s forces would be, which equally meant that he knew the terrain of Magdred Way inside-out. He cut through the forest, keeping Ashe close by his side, his footsteps light against Ashe’s heavier ones. Still, with the way he moved, he avoided the areas where packs of Lonato’s rebels were located, preventing them from being discovered.

He drew upon his mental map of the area. _Forest. Fog-mage just out of the clearing. Lonato and several knights overseeing from the rear. Detour through the forest the long-way around, catch them by surprise from the back._

More than once, Ashe tried to ask Byleth something, but now wasn’t the time for it. He must have understood the gravity of the situation, because eventually he stopped struggling, although Byleth could faintly feel Ashe’s tension and uncertainty in the tight grip he held over Byleth’s free arm. Who could have known that the kid had such a strong grip? That might even leave a bruise after all this was done.

It took merely minutes to clear their way through the forest, zigzagging around Lonato’s forces. The sounds of battle faded in the distance, becoming lost in the density of the trees. At last, they neared the treeline, and Byleth took a second to pause.

“Whispers only,” he spoke softly. “Lonato’s up ahead. Are you ready?”

“How do you know?” Ashe matched his volume.

“Just trust me. Are you ready or not?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, but when he did, his determination was clear. “I am.”

“If all else fails, run. Hide in the trees.”

“But –“

“I’m not taking no for an answer.” Byleth was resolute. He wouldn’t let Ashe die once again.

“I –“ Byleth glared at him, and he paused mid-speech. “Fine,” he whispered reluctantly.

“Stay close.”

With that, he tugged on Ashe’s arm, making their way out of the dense forest to meet face-to-face with Lord Lonato Gaspard and his knights.

“What in the –“ he heard Lonato say as shadowy wisps in the fog turned into sharp humanoid figures. “Ambush! Kill the heretic’s soldiers!”

Byleth continued moving forward, readying his sword as the knights approached. The veil of white fog separating Ashe and himself from Lonato and his men lessened.

“Lord Lonato!” Ashe shouted. “Please, don’t –“

“Ashe?” Lonato asked in a rare moment of disbelief. “What are you…”

“Stand down, Lonato,” Byleth warned in a low voice. “You don’t need to do this.”

“You’re one of Rhea’s,” he spoke in realisation. “You serve the heretic! You and the rest of your Central Church will face the judgement of the Goddess!”

He raised his lance in one hand, the other held tightly onto his horse’s reins. By his side, the pair of knights in his service tensed, their own weapons held ready.

“You don’t give a _damn_ about the Church or the Goddess,” Byleth snapped. “This is about Christophe, isn’t it? You’re being manipulated –”

“You _dare_ speak his name?!” Spittle flew; he was beyond angry. “You dare, after your _Church_ executed my son? Men! –”

“_Ashe_ is your son as well!” Byleth roared. “Christophe may be dead, but Ashe isn’t! Do you want Ashe to lose his _father_ as well? WAKE UP!”

“Please, Lord Lonato, don’t do this!” Ashe begged, his voice cracking. For a moment, Lonato seemed to reconsider, but…

He shook his head. “No. You have chosen your side. That vile witch took my _son_ with her treachery. If you side with her, then _so be it_!”

Lonato spurred his horse into motion. By his side, his men advanced.

His plan failed, then. He couldn’t get a peaceful resolution after all.

If so, then it was time to end this.

He pushed Ashe aside, unloading a spell into one of the knights. The air itself rent and churned as flames burst into reality, the sundering fires of _Ragnarok_ charring the knight’s flesh beneath his thick armour. The following explosion of concussive force as the air rushed outward from the sudden changes in pressure sent him flying back, a resounding _crack_ briefly punctuating the sounds of battle.

The other knight fared better. His armour protected him from Byleth’s attempt to strike at vital spots, nearly catching Byleth in the shoulder as his axe swung through the air. He rolled to dodge, rising as fast as he could, only for the hooves of Lonato’s mount to appear right before him. The silver sheen of a lance flashed in the corner of his vision, and he was forced to move once more.

He recovered gracefully from his tumble, turning around to deflect the thrust of Lonato’s lance. He bent low, then _jumped_, tackling Lonato unceremoniously off his horse, then stood up from the following roll in one smooth motion.

“AH!” he heard Ashe shout. His blood ran cold, turning quickly to where the sound came from. Ashe was cowering before the remaining knight, his bow broken, hands raised before him with wide eyes filled with terror.

Byleth acted on instinct. He saw a path, he had a plan of action, and his body _moved_.

One moment, a knight stood before Ashe, his axe held high.

The next, Byleth found himself kicking off a tree-trunk, sword abandoned, the hidden dagger he’d kept on his person gripped in an outstretched hand as he sailed through the air. One hand was tightly held on the grip while the other pressed down firmly on the end of pommel, flesh parting easily where the dagger sunk in the empty space in the neck between chestpiece and helmet. The two crashed down onto the forest floor, rustling up fallen leaves and dirt.

Byleth got up quickly. He heard the sound of the man gurgling, choking on his own blood, but he didn’t have any spare time to grant a merciful death. Lonato was charging in a mad rage toward him, lance held parallel to the ground. Again, Byleth relied on instincts long honed through past lives.

He leapt backward, feet kicking off a tree-trunk, and vaulted _precisely_ above the shaft of his lance, straightening his body as Lonato’s weapon barely missed skewering the target of its ire. He saw Lonato’s body shift, attempting to step aside from Byleth’s path, but Byleth’s dagger was already in motion. He could see the metallic, silvery sheen of his own dagger reflected from Lonato’s wide eyes.

“NO!” –

_“NO!” Ashe’s scream tore through the sounds of clashing steel and shouted orders. Byleth turned, mindlessly blasting aside yet another Empire soldier with a cast of Wind, only to see Ashe staring skyward, transfixed._

_He followed the line of his gaze, only for his own eyes to widen at the sight of a Pegasus twisting and turning in mid-air, its wing shredded, arrows piercing its gargantuan body from all around. A body fell from the sky, falling, falling –_

_\- _CRACK.

_He hurriedly formed the magics of _Physic_, willing the White Magic that made up the spell to form a connection between him and his target. He wasn’t an expert in the spell, but if there was even the slightest chance of it working he would take it. He pulsed the magical energies through, the metaphysical tunnel linking himself to the target destination, but the motes of organised magic merely drifted along, aimless, without a body to which they could be attached to._

_It was too late. Ingrid was dead._

_Ashe let out an ungodly cry, making his way toward his closest friend. The soldiers in his way fell from precise, rapid shots of the Bow Knight. Those that even _dared_ to draw close were put down by precise strikes of his lance. Some managed to land their own blows on the enraged Faerghus General who didn’t bother to dodge, simply allowing his mighty steed to bowl over those in his path. Nothing could have kept him away from what mattered most to him._

_It was by Ingrid’s side that Byleth finally found Ashe kneeling on the ground, clutching her motionless hand tightly. “Ingrid, Ingrid, please…” he repeated fervently over and over again._

_“Ashe,” Byleth said. _

_“Professor?” he turned, his face taking on a brief glimmer of hope. “You’re here! Heal her! Please, Professor!”_

_“Ashe…” he steeled his heart. This was war. “She’s gone.”_

_Silence._

_“No,” Ashe’s voice shook. “No.”_

_“We need to go,” he urged. His own heart shook, but the decade he had spent in the loop allowed reason to overpower rage. Revenge would come later, at the _truest_ of enemies. “We’re being overrun!”_

_Ashe didn’t seem to react. “Ashe?”_

_“No, Professor,” Ashe said, standing slowly, still staring unblinkingly at Ingrid’s body. His horse waited loyally by his side._

_“Ashe!”_

_“Ingrid,” his voice carried over, nocking another arrow into his bow as he mounted his horse once more. “We’ll meet again soon.”_

_“Ashe, don’t do it!” Byleth reached out for his student, but this wasn’t the same untrained boy from five years ago. He dextrously darted out of Byleth’s reach, and bid his horse to move._

_“NO!” Byleth shouted, his fingers fumbling through the air in the empty space his student had just occupied._

_“THIS IS FOR INGRID!”_

_“No…” he uttered softly, as Ashe continued fighting, arrows and lance flashing while his own injuries piled up. Barely a minute after he’d rode off _toward_ the bulk of Empire forces, Ashe’s voice disappeared from the unnamed battlefield. The body of the Bow Knight was later found amidst a group of dead Empire soldiers, his bow and lance broken by the side, knuckles still bloodied._

– caught off guard by the sudden memory brought to the fore of the mind, his arm twitched. A single _twitch_, a fractional displacement, but it was the only mistake needed for a seasoned veteran to avoid death.

Lonato moved his head aside, forcing his body backward as he dropped his lance to correct for the change in balance. The dagger continued in motion, cutting a deep gash along Lonato’s cheek. Carried by the force from which he propelled himself off the tree trunk, Byleth couldn’t change direction in mid-air or otherwise arrest his momentum. His leap carried him forward, his body twisting in what felt most natural to him as he tried to turn into a roll.

This wasn’t the Empire ambush. Ingrid and Ashe hadn’t died. This was the present, here and now.

That moment of hesitation and re-orientation cost him far too much. A spike of pain burst from behind his left thigh, his clothes turning damp where the lance had pierced him.

Shit.

He stumbled to his feet, trying as hard as he could to create distance with the injury he sustained. He turned and prepared to face Lonato once more, shifting his weight around slightly. Not a mortal injury, but a moderately disabling one. He couldn’t dodge easily, but magic was still something he had up his sleeves.

He’d faced worse odds before and lived. This wouldn’t kill him. He would give Lonato one last chance to stand down.

Ashe’s anguished cry still rang in his ears. He didn’t want to hear that ever again.

-o-o-o-

“NO!” Ashe screamed as he watched Byleth kick off from a sturdy tree trunk toward Lonato, dagger raised forward in a move aimed only to kill.

This couldn’t be happening. Lonato was always so _kind_, so loving to everyone in the village. Why would he –

Byleth, who had seemed so in control all the time, jerked in mid-air. His strike missed. Lonato moved backward, wiping the back of his hand against his cheek where a bloody gash had been left.

Thank the Goddess!

“Lord Lonato!” Ashe sobbed happily. “You –“

The man he had come to call his own father raised his lance, and stabbed it forcefully against the back of Byleth’s leg where he’d landed in the soil.

“BYLETH!”

Lonato withdrew the lance, thrusting it down once more, but Byleth rolled off to the side, rising shakily to his feet. He charged once more toward Byleth, Ashe’s _friend_, and to his horror Byleth stumbled from the injury he’d received.

Byleth had shielded Ashe away from Lonato’s knight. Lonato’s _knight_, that Ashe had seen and interacted with in his years in House Gaspard, a knight that had been ready to kill him without mercy. Now, Byleth was going to die, because Ashe had distracted him.

“NO!” Ashe moved forward, ignoring the scrapes and cuts from where he’d been forced down onto the forest floor. His didn’t have a bow, or a lance, or a sword, or any other weapon. All he had was his body.

He grabbed onto Lord Lonato’s hand, pulling it to one side with all his might. His thrust missed Byleth, a grunt escaping from his lips as he put pressure on his injured leg once more.

“Lonato –“

A backhand sent Ashe flying back off against a tree trunk. The world spun as he struggled to his feet.

“Ashe!” Byleth shouted. “Just run!”

“No!” He couldn’t run, not now. Byleth had stood up for him, had tried his best to make Lonato surrender. If he wouldn’t – if he continued to fight, Ashe had to –

“Please, Lord Lonato, don’t do this,” Ashe urged. “Don’t, please.”

“They took Christophe from me,” his adoptive father said, voice with an undertone of anger so difficult to reconcile with the kind man that had adopted a thief out of pure goodwill all those years ago. “They have to pay.”

“I miss Christophe too, but this isn’t the way to honour his memory!” Why wouldn’t Lonato understand? He hadn’t spent much time with Christophe, but the older boy had always been nice to him. “He wouldn’t want you to do this!”

Lord Lonato stilled, and Ashe dared hope that he got through to him. He turned to look at Ashe, with the most furious expression Ashe had ever seen on his face.

“You dare talk about _my son?_”

“Ashe, move!” Byleth coughed, sword still raised in a guard.

“No,” he said as calmly as he could, with his heart thumping in his chest all the while. “Lord Lonato, please –“

“You’re being manipulated.” Lonato snapped back toward Byleth, now moving more easily even on his wounded leg. Blood still poured out from where the lance had penetrated. How could he just ignore something like that? His flesh was _pierced through_, for the Goddess’ sake!

“That’s the second time you’ve said that, boy,” Lonato intoned dangerously. “You’ve been misled by that false witch Rhea –“

“I’m not talking about fucking _Rhea_,” he snapped, with more irritation than Ashe had seen from the normally calm squire. Ashe couldn’t help it; he flinched. “I’m talking about the people who conspired with you. A common ally informed you and the Western Church to take on the Central Church. I’m willing to bet that you’ve been led to believe that Thunder Catherine herself is leading this mission, and that the students would pass by Magdred Way. Does that sound about right?”

What?

“What?” Lonato tensed, his entire body shifting. “How?”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Byleth shook his head, but his eyes remained focused on Lonato. “You’re being _used_, Lonato, whether you see it or not.”

“How can you possibly know any of that?” he asked, dangerously calm.

“You want to know the truth, Lonato?” Byleth’s gaze bore deep into Lonato’s, and from the corner where Ashe watched he saw just how _terrifying_ Byleth was. Those eyes were so empty, so devoid of life –

“The people who set you up on this mission? _They_ instigated the Tragedy of Duscur.”

_What?! _

Ashe gasped.

Lonato didn’t react for a second. Two.

“Impossible,” he spoke. “Impossible!”

“Who did you meet –the Death Knight, Flame Emperor, Solon?” Byleth continued saying a series of names that meant nothing to Ashe. What in the Goddess’ good name was going on?

“How can you know any of this?” Lonato breathed. The grip on his lance loosened.

“I know because I’m fighting against them. I’ve fought them for _years_. I don’t fully trust Rhea any more than you do, but the people manipulating you? They’re monsters_,_ Lonato, and I won’t stop until all of them are dead. For Ashe’s sake, stand down, _now._”

“No,” Lonato said in disbelief. “It can’t be. Then Christophe –“

“I don’t know anything about his involvement, but there is a good chance he might have been innocent.”

“Then… Thunderstrike Cassandra executed my son for NOTHING?!” Lonato raised his lance.

“Lord Lonato, please!” Ashe ran to his side, holding onto his hand. Once, his hands had accepted a thief that had stolen from his own home. Now, Ashe would do anything to see that they didn’t become bloodied.

Unlike before, Lonato didn’t strike. Byleth had a dangerous glint in his eyes. “It was _not_ for nothing,” he said. “One day, the truth will out, and I swear that justice will be meted out.”

Was it working? Could they convince Lord Lonato to surrender? “Lord Lonato, don’t do this. You’re kind, compassionate – you’re not like this!”

“If what you say is true, how do I know you’re not working with them, boy?” Lonato asked Byleth, pointedly ignoring Ashe. 

“I will_ never_ work with them.”

He said it with such certainty, such finality that Ashe accepted it as true. No one could mistake the sheer unadulterated anger in his voice. Lonato, the trained knight and veteran of combat, flinched.

“Even then…” he spoke softly, a semblance of the kind man Ashe so knew and loved leaking through. “Christophe… my son…”

“You’ve got Ashe,” Byleth urged. “He loves you – he stopped me from killing you, for the Goddess’ sake! Don’t –“

His voice broke temporarily. “Don’t make the mistakes I did,” he said with a touch of melancholy mixed with steely calm. “Don’t throw away everything that you have for vengeance’s sake.”

“I…” Lonato spoke, turning to look at Ashe. _This _was the man who had taken a thief into his own home. He threw caution to the wind, enveloping the man he was proud to call father with a hug, propriety be damned.

“Lord Lonato, don’t do this,” he sobbed openly. “Don’t…” he repeated.

He felt a hand circle around the back of his head, pushed deep into the man’s torso. He heard Lonato sigh deeply. “It’s alright, child… it’s alright…”

He remained in his father’s embrace, not daring to move, not wanting this moment to end. Mutedly, he heard Lonato speaking to Byleth. “You will tell me all about what you know.”

“I will, in time,” he said. “There are some secrets I can’t tell anyone yet, but I will see justice dealt. If you surrender, you’ll be taken prisoner, but I swear I will tell you what I know about Duscur.”

There was a longer pause, before Lonato released Ashe from his grip.

“You swear it?” Lonato asked, looking Byleth in the eyes.

“I swear it.”

The two studied each other for several more seconds, before Lonato made his decision.

“Fine,” he said. “We surrender.”

Ashe wasn’t at all embarrassed to say that he wept happily. Everything was going to be alright.

-o-o-o-

All things considered, it hadn’t taken very long to reach Lonato, convince him to surrender, and to order his fog-mage to release his spell. He estimated than less than twenty minutes had passed since the start of battle. Hopefully, that meant that the aftermath would be less bloody than previous battles fought in Magdred Way, especially since Alois had opted for a defensive strategy.

“The fog is lifting!” Byleth heard Alois shout. “Is that…”

“Hold!” Lonato ordered, and his men obeyed. “We surrender.”

Abruptly, all fighting ceased. Byleth took a moment to survey the casualties. Quite a number of rebels lay unmoving on the ground, some still struggling to their feet. On their side, Byleth didn’t immediately notice any injured knights or students, thank the Goddess.

“Byleth? _Ashe_?” Alois asked disbelievingly. “What are you – you’re injured!”

He prepared his axe threateningly, ready to cut Lonato down where he stood.

“No, don’t!” Byleth hurriedly intervened. “Lonato’s surrendered.”

To prove his point, Lonato let go of his lance, disturbing clumps of forest soil where it met the ground. For a moment, the entire battlefield was stunned, but then one by one his men let go of their own weapons.

It was finally over.

Lonato held his hands out expectantly. A pair of knights hurriedly ran up to him, binding them with thick cords as they glared suspiciously at him all the while.

“Byleth,” Alois growled, genuine anger leaking into his voice. “You owe me an explanation.”

“I forced Lonato to surrender,” he explained.

“You disobeyed orders! You got yourself injured!”

“It was worth it!” Byleth argued, gesturing at the group of rebels now being rounded up. “At least _some _lives were saved. Ashe and I are still alive. It worked out.”

“You can’t just make that decision! What if you had died?” Alois roared. Their argument was drawing more attention.

_If I died, I could just do this all over again. _

“It doesn’t matter,” Byleth shrugged.

“It doesn’t – of course it matters!” Alois spoke, flustered, in a tone equally aghast and furious. “You were injured! You could have _died_!”

“I wasn’t in danger. If I wanted to kill Lonato, I could have.” He’d been ready to fire a _Sagittae_ had his plan to talk Lonato out of the rebellion failed. He had been watching closely, and he’d _almost_ let his spell loose when Lonato had struck Ashe. Thankfully, he hadn’t.

“But you didn’t?”

“I was ready to, but Ashe…” he looked at the boy, still standing by Lonato’s side. “He deserves to have his father.”

Alois' anger decreased in intensity as he looked at the pair. “We’ll be continuing this discussion later. And I _will_ be talking to Jeralt about this.”

“Fine,” Byleth said. He looked around the battlefield. Already, people were moving bodies around, rescuing the wounded that had fallen in battle. “For now, I need to treat injured survivors.”

“_You’re_ injured!” Alois protested. Quickly, he shouted for Mercedes, who was already in the midst of healing other knights.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. Thankfully, Lonato hadn’t hit any vital areas. It was still bleeding, sure, but he had survived worse wounds. Sadly, White Magic didn’t work when casted on oneself. Idly, he spotted a wounded commoner being supported by a knight, and cast a _Physic_. Even terrible as he was with the spell, his minor wounds closed miraculously, and he stumbled mid-step as white light enveloped his injuries, looking around in startled confusion.

“You’re staying put, Byleth,” Mercedes came up to him, placing her hands over his thigh. The familiar glyph of _Heal_ appeared, closing the wound slightly. She frowned, casting the spell again.

“Don’t tire yourself out,” he warned. Novices in White Magic couldn’t use the spell too often. “It’s fine now.”

“You’re being very silly,” she spoke with her usual gentle voice. “This is quite a serious wound.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse. It’s fine now. You should tend to the others, if you have the magic to spare.”

“Nope!” she said cheerfully. “I’m staying right here.”

He sighed, resigned to his fate. He looked around his immediate vicinity, healing as best he could. Soon enough, he wasn’t able to continue casting. He wasn’t as well-versed in healing as most of his students would come to be. Despite his experience, some things just couldn’t beat raw talent the likes that Mercedes, Marianne, Linhardt and Flayn would come to possess.

“You ended the fight,” Felix stated when Mercedes had _finally_ deemed him ready to go. “You made Lonato surrender.”

Byleth nodded. Was there supposed to be a question there?

“Why?”

“No one needed to die here today,” he said simply. “I told you before – sometimes, the best fight is one not fought.”

Of course, he’d very almost killed Lonato. In a terrifying way, his philosophy was so close to Edelgard’s own. He wouldn’t shy away from killing if necessary, but would avoid it if possible.

“Perhaps there may be some truth to your words,” Felix considered. “I will keep them in mind.”

High praise, coming from Felix. He half-expected to be chewed out.

“However, getting injured in the process isn’t worth it. I heard what you said to Alois,” he continued, voice rising slightly in anger. “It doesn’t matter if you die? _That_ sounds like the drivel that Ashe and Ingrid chatter about all the time.”

“It was calculated. I’m not an idiot, Felix, I know my limits. Everything was under control.”

“This time, maybe, but what about the next? You can’t throw your life away like that,” he argued, then adopted a sarcastic tone. “What happened to ‘_conviction tempered by wisdom’_?”

He was thinking about Glenn again, then? Byleth didn’t know how to handle this situation. It had been so rare that he sustained injuries during this battle, since he was usually together with Catherine and the rest of his students when the time came to fight Lonato. Being caught off-guard by Ashe hadn’t helped matters.

Felix scowled, then walked away. Byleth let him go. He would calm down, in time.

That fight hadn’t gone entirely smoothly. He’d been startled when he heard that same torturous cry from Ashe that had been carved into his memory across lifetimes. Hundreds of years he’d been here, and still he couldn’t let go of those damned memories. He remembered them all – all twenty-four of his students, all his fellow Professors and members of the Church. It was why he so loathed trying to fight alongside them, preferring to strike out alone. He needed to do better.

Soon, they were ready to move out once more. Lonato was their willing prisoner, walking in step with the rest of them, the commonfolk under his charge having been allowed to return to their homes. All things considered, it was a far better end to how the rebellion normally played out, even if there were some who lost their lives.

This life was feeling so different. He had a connection with all three Houses, Catherine didn’t take charge of this mission, and Lonato had survived.

-o-o-o-

Lonato hadn’t survived.

“What do you mean he’s dead?!” Byleth spat.

Barely a _day_ after they’d returned to the Monastery, he’d been greeted early in the morning with the news when Alois showed up at the training grounds where Byleth had been practicing. Lonato had been sent to the prison wing of the monastery, the same one where Byleth had been housed during his previous life. He knew just how tight security was around there. It was under constant surveillance by knights, rotating in eight-hour shifts.

One couldn’t simply escape, be rescued or commit suicide under conditions like those. The Church took their sentencing very seriously. It was why he’d been forced to wait two weeks in that cell, knowing that he’d be executed while wasting all that time twiddling his thumbs. He should have had thought to hide some poison on his person to rush the process back then.

“Someone attacked the knights on duty. Most were killed, but one was still alive when the healers arrived. It was Jeritza,” Alois growled. “I trusted that man!”

Impossible.

“Jeritza?” he repeated, asking for confirmation, his voice hollow. “Are you _sure_?”

“Beyond a doubt.” Alois swung his axe angrily at a training post, burying it deep in the wood. “I know the knight. He’s a good man. And the others who died… I _knew_ them.”

He struck against the training post again and again, only speaking once he’d carved his way through the entire thick chunk of wood. His breathing quickened only mildly from the exertion.

“Jeritza’s gone without a trace. There’s more,” he said with a slightly calmer voice, now that some of the agitation had been relieved. “We’ve searched his quarters. He’s had an entire underground dungeon hiding beneath his room! And not _that_ kind of dungeon,” he chuckled feebly, trying to humour himself with a joke. It didn’t work. “An actual dungeon. There wasn’t anything of note inside, but we’ve cordoned off the area.”

This…

_None _of this added up.

Jeritza would need that area to house Flayn when he kidnapped her. In every lifetime, this was something else that would _always_ happen. It would also enable Kronya to reintegrate into Garreg Mach under the guise of Monica. Byleth had been able to prevent the kidnapping in the past, certainly, but his enemies would always make use of the Death Knight’s cover as Jeritza to carry out that task.

To give up his cover now… did that mean that their future plans would change? Would Flayn _not_ be kidnapped?

How was it possible that one change reverted another? What was the _point_ of convincing Lonato to surrender, if he’d end up dying just like every other life? How could such a change not have mattered at all?

Alois continued, unknowing of Byleth’s thoughts. “We’ve found a note on his person when we searched his belongings as well. It details a plot to assassinate Lady Rhea on the day of the ritual for the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth.”

At least that remained constant. So, the plot to steal from the Holy Mausoleum would carry on as planned. It wasn’t much of a surprise, given how important the remains of the Children of the Goddess were to the Agarthan faction. With the Mausoleum only open on a single day, they would probably risk all that and more to obtain them.

He didn’t quite know whether or not they knew just what Seiros’ false coffin stored, or if they knew just who Seiros really was, but they _would_ know that the Sword was more than just a simple sword. The final remains of the Goddess (barring the Crest Stone within his heart) had power beyond reckoning.

“It is a pity,” Alois shook his head. “We were going to interrogate Lonato tomorrow… and young Ashe is inconsolable at the news…”

Fuck. Ashe.

He’d forgotten, _again_, about one of his closest friends; just like he had with Lysithea. All he had considered was what it would mean for him and the war. He’d forgotten to think about what Lonato’s death would mean to a friend that had died by his side in battle many times over.

“I know you fought hard for his surrender. I’m sorry, Byleth.”

“I’m sorry too,” he said. He exhaled deeply. “I’ll be fine, Alois. I’ll find Ashe and talk to him later. Thank you for telling me about this.”

He waved him off. “Enough about that. I’ve told Jeralt about the mission yesterday, and he isn’t pleased. The captain wants to meet you later.”

Byleth sighed. More trouble. “I’ll find him in the Professor’s Quarters.”

Alois nodded. “I know you’ll hear enough beratement from him, so I’ll say this instead.” He placed his axe back to where he normally carried it by his waist. “Good work yesterday, Byleth. You saved lives. Don’t ever forget that.”

He gave a final pat on the back, leaving Byleth alone to his thoughts in the training grounds. He needed to organise what had happened and what might happen in time to come.

Jeritza gave up his cover and position in the Monastery. Flayn wouldn’t be kidnapped and placed in his dungeon. Kronya would have to find some other way into the monastery.

Then there were the more worrying questions. Had Lonato been forced to tell the Death Knight just what knowledge Byleth had demonstrated he possessed? Did they know that Byleth was aware of the Agarthans? Or had Lonato, in his final moments, refused to yield to those that had caused the Tragedy of Duscur, that had given his family nothing but ruin?

He would need to think and plan. This life was completely unlike any other, even though no two lives were exactly alike.

For now, though, he could put all that aside. He needed to find Ashe.

-o-o-o-

“It was them, wasn’t it?” Ashe spoke from where he sat on his bed, knees brought close to his chest. It had taken a lot of persuading, but Byleth had finally managed to convince him to let him into his room.

He’d been devastated all day, refusing all contact with other members of the Blue Lion House. Byleth had waited for close to half an hour, listening as Ashe’s loud sobs turned into quiet sniffles on the other side of the door before he’d calmed down. Then, they’d sat in silence for another ten minutes, before Ashe had finally begun to talk.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Ashe asked the simple, yet profound question. “Why did they kill him?”

“He knew about them. That was enough. Ashe, this group…” he paused, trying to think of just how to demonstrate how terrifying the Agarthans were. _Hundreds of lifetimes of war, and they always emerged the victor. Weapons capable of levelling the most fortified of cities. _“They’re dangerous.”

“You’re fighting them!” he argued. “You need to tell me what you know!”

“No.” He was adamant about this. Ashe couldn’t be involved in this; not yet. Now that he knew that they were willing to alter their plans simply to keep knowledge of their existence silent, Ashe couldn’t be allowed to become a target.

“I need to know! Lord Lonato –“ he choked on his words once more.

“He’s dead because of Jeritza,” Byleth said in as soothing a voice he could manage. “I can’t let you be involved with this.”

“They killed Lonato,” Ashe said, volume rising as he spoke. This time, his words were clear. “They might as well have killed Christophe. And according to you, they caused the Tragedy of Duscur.”

“You’re not ready –“

“When will I be?” he interrupted, looking Byleth in the eye. “I need to do this. If Lonato cannot, then as his adoptive son, I -”

He stopped mid-speech once more, pulling his knees closer toward himself. As much as he wanted to keep Ashe out of this, he knew that Lonato meant everything to Ashe.

Goddess’ sake, he’d seen Ashe die, his literal last words revealing that he still only thought of continuing Lonato’s wishes and legacy. There was no way he wouldn’t pursue this matter.

“You’ll need to become stronger,” he told Ashe. “Much stronger.”

“How much stronger?” he asked challengingly.

“Become a Bow Knight, at the very least, or whatever Master Class you intend on pursuing.”

He inhaled sharply. “A Bow Knight…?” he muttered unconfidently.

“Ashe. This group is powerful. Ridiculously so,” Byleth said. “That’s the _minimum_ level of strength I’d consider telling this secret to.”

“But you’re still fighting,” he stated.

He gave a snort in mild amusement. _That’s putting it mildly_. “I’ve been caught up in their schemes for a long time. Like it or not, I’ve been dragged into this mess. There’s no escape for me if I don’t see it through,” he said, with a touch of humour that only he understood. _Literally no escape, in my case. There wasn’t even certainty of breaking the time loop if and when that actually happened._ “But you’re different. You don’t need to get dragged into this. You can turn away, live your life the way you want.”

Ashe didn’t even need a moment to consider. “No. I’m going to fight.” He glared at Byleth defiantly, a rare look that seemed so out of place on the kind and honest boy’s face, but one that made Byleth so proud. “I’m going to become a Bow Knight.”

“You’ll need to work hard,” he warned.

“I’ll train. Every day. I’ll make Lonato proud, and I’ll see justice done. I’ll become just like the knights of legend. When the time comes, I’ll make sure that you tell me what you know. Like you said, Byleth,” he paused, looking at him with the very slightest of trembling smiles. “’You don’t have to do this alone’, right?”

_Kyphon and King Loog, _Byleth remembered Ashe telling him more than once; his favourite tale of the bravery and chivalry of a knight and his friend and liege. In one life, the students had jokingly taken to calling Ashe ‘_Kyphon’_ after a particularly brave showing in the Battle of the Eagles and Lions.

Later, he would come to earn that same name that struck fear to the hearts of his enemies, and for good reason. Looking at him now, spouting Byleth’s own advice from before the battle that Ashe had turned around unto himself, he knew that moniker would certainly make a return.

He would have to live to get to that point first, though. If his student was going to fight, he’d better damn well know how to _fight_.

“They’ll be organising the inter-House training sessions soon. You should attend. I’m in the training grounds everyday starting an hour before sunrise,” he told Ashe as he prepared to leave the room. He knew that Ashe would be more than fine now. He always found a way to heal. “You’re welcome to join me.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I know,” Byleth said as he walked toward the door, the smile on his face hidden from Ashe’s view.

The meek, yet diligent and honest boy was going to become just like one of the knights of old that he was so endeared to. Of that, Byleth was absolutely certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, a staple of the Peggy Sue genre, standard fare MC OP protagonist has to be caught out by a past memory during Random Important Battle.


	7. Riparian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riparian: adj. of, situated, or dwelling on the bank of a river or other body of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of the random chapter dump.  
(haven't played Blue Lions, so a certain scene may be completely wrong. I'm working with what I know from the other routes and the wiki)

She was the fourth daughter and only surviving child of Emperor Ionius IX, the puppet emperor of the Adrestian Empire. She was the princess and heir to the throne, the sole possessor of the Minor Crest of Seiros in her generation, and a living victim of the cruelty of Crests. She was one bequeathed with a great responsibility, and she would not shirk from it.

She was trained from the time she was a child in all manner of statecraft and martial combat, taught always to act for the betterment of Fódlan. She was also one who suffered from the games played by the nobility, forced to flee during the Insurrection of the Seven. She knew that beneath the staged smiles and false platitudes lay monsters that cared only for power. For _Crests_.

She was the Flame Emperor, the only possessor of the Crest of Flames since the time of Nemesis, and the one who would tear down the veil of secrecy upheld by the Church. She would bring an end to a system based entirely on Crests and the circumstances of one’s birth.

She was one who was willing to bear any burden and pay any price to save the future of Fódlan. She would willingly endure the ire of the people of Fódlan, so long as it meant that future generations would not suffer the cruelty of Crests, that none would be subject to experimentation and discrimination for something outside of their control as she had.

She would change the world, and any who stood in her way would fall.

For she was _Edelgard von Hresvelg_.

\- and she was having a tea party.

She had been invited by Byleth earlier in the week. She had, of course, graciously accepted. This was an excellent opportunity to evaluate the influence he would have over her future plans. She would let nothing get in her way, and someone like Byleth held great potential to do just that.

Of course, that didn’t mean that she couldn’t enjoy it.

The scent of fragrant citrus emanating from the teacup before her permeated the air all around the pavilion within the garden. She took a small sip – graceful and refined, as expected of her – appreciating the sweet, yet subtle spice and bitterness of bergamot tea. Divine flavour and heavenly aroma blended together.

She closed her eyes. Perfection.

“You have excellent taste, Byleth.”

Was it a coincidence, or did Byleth happen to know her favourite tea? Had he guessed?

“I had figured you would enjoy this particular blend.” He sipped at his own cup. “Bergamot certainly suits your personality.”

Edelgard studied his expression closely, looking for any tell she could find.

Byleth was an enigma. Raised by nobility in both the courts of Enbarr and Fhirdiad, she was well-versed with looking beneath the false smiles and kind words that the nobles of the Adrestian Empire and the Holy Kingdom of Faergus so loved to dispense. She knew that no one was truly quite as they presented themselves. The Empire nobles that had once praised and declared their friendship for her father had revealed their true nature during the Insurrection, and she would not repeat the same mistake of trusting what others _wanted_ her to see.

She had seen the way that Byleth’s smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes, much like Claude von Riegan, the scion of his House. She had seen Byleth in the monastery, twitching and tensing at random occasions as though expecting an attack at any moment. It was more pronounced in the library and guest quarters, which she reasoned were locations where an attack would leave little room for retreat. He had good instincts, but what reason had he for such paranoia?

Was it the same reason as her? Did he have reason to both fear and despise the Church?

Or was he an enemy? Did he know the true nature of the Death Knight, of her and her tenuous allies? Did he fear an attack from them, instead?

It had been two weeks since he had returned with the Blue Lions, along with their willing prisoner, Lord Lonato. The next day, Jeritza had him assassinated, which of course meant that Thales wanted him dead. The Knights had found a note detailing a plan to assassinate Rhea, which any fool could tell was an obvious distraction. But for what purpose?

Why had she been kept in the dark as to their involvement in Lonato’s rebellion?

She was no foolish child. She didn’t know whether Thales was truly born Volkhardt von Arundel or was one who merely wore his guise. What she _did_ know was that he could not be trusted. He had turned on Emperor Ionius IX, his own brother-in-law. The only thing that held their alliance together was the presence of their common enemy. Once the Church and Rhea were destroyed, there would be nothing stopping him from doing the same to her. This matter only served to confirm her suspicions.

Were Byleth on her side, she would have thanked him. He had forced their hand, causing the Death Knight to lose his position to act from within the monastery. It was only after that happened that Thales had deigned to inform her of their intention to steal Seiros’ remains from the Holy Mausoleum, and to cooperate with the Death Knight when the time came. She now knew exactly where she stood in Thales’ plans. It would give her time to prepare and re-evaluate her own plans going forward. Perhaps she should find a way to intervene, if possible. The way Thales operated wasn’t one that she would allow onto the rest of Fódlan when the time came that the Church and all who upheld the system based entirely on Crests were finally destroyed.

Byleth was skilled, of that there was no doubt, having seen his prowess during the mock battle earlier in their first month and in their first mission against the remnants of the bandit gang led by that fool Kostas. She didn’t feel the least bit of sympathy for the man. He had chosen the life of a bandit, of a thug that preyed only on the weak and innocent, and he had dug his own grave. He was merely a tool for her own designs, and one that had failed miserably. Had he not met his end by their hands, she would have killed him herself when the time came.

Speaking of Kostas… Byleth had ruined her plan to take out the other two heads of houses. They were some that she could consider as friends, but it had been a necessary venture. So long as Fódlan remained divided, the system that cared only for Crests for millennia would continue to be perpetuated. Sacrifices had to be made.

Then again, it was just as well that Byleth had taken care of the situation. With how pathetic Kostas and his gang had been, they could just as easily have leaked what they knew of the Flame Emperor to Rhea and the Church. There was no guarantee that he and his men would have been able to finish the job.

“You’re looking deep in thought.”

Edelgard didn’t startle at the voice of her latest puzzle. Such was unbefitting of a future emperor. Behaviour like that would see her plans for Fódlan ended before they bore fruit.

“Indeed.” She sipped at her tea once more. A disarming tactic, one that would lower the guard of others. There was a reason why _tea_ was so favoured among the nobility. “As a matter of fact, I was wondering about you.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head fractionally. A calculated gesture, one that Edelgard knew well. He certainly was no Caspar von Bergliez or Ferdinand von Aegir who would openly place his heart and mind on display.

“Indeed. You demonstrate skill well beyond my peers and I, and I cannot help but feel that talent of your calibre is wasted serving in the Knights of Seiros.”

She looked for any sign of contempt toward the Church. Was he like her, one that planned to work from within to topple the system? Or was he a hopeless loyalist, one that she would inevitably have to fight?

No such luck. His face remained completely neutral, expressionless.

“Hmm,” he hummed, placing his teacup back on the table. “Serving as a squire is… shall we say, an exploration of sorts. I’m undecided between the life of a mercenary and a knight.” Calculated words.

“You would absolutely reject the possibility of serving under a noble?” She asked pointlessly. She knew the answer.

“I am not keen on playing the games of nobles.”

_There_. There was a look in his eyes, one that spoke of some form of suffering under the system that had plagued Fódlan since the time of Nemesis. He tried hard to hide it, but some visceral reactions were unavoidable. She had great experience in such matters, and knew precisely where to look.

But what cause would he have to despise the nobility? He certainly wasn’t a noble or related to one. Jeralt Eisner, the legendary Blade Breaker, was well-known for avoiding the requests of nobles, opting to perform mercenary jobs posted by villages and merchants. There was no clear agreement as to why. Did any of that factor in here?

She needed to learn more. Byleth would be either a formidable ally, or a terrible enemy. The sooner she found out to which way he leaned, the better.

“Forgive me if I overstep, but have nobles given cause for offense? If so, as the heir to the throne of the Adrestian Empire, I must apologise.” A probing question, diplomatic and balanced. It asked for his views without explicitly demanding for them.

Again, she sipped at her tea, using the cup to hide her own expressions. She pretended to be mesmerised by the tea (make no mistake, it was _good_ tea), but her attention was undivided. Her eyes could see just a glimpse of his face just above the borders of the teacup, while he wouldn’t be able to see much of hers. It was an age-old tactic in non-verbal diplomacy.

Still the same reaction. A carefully hidden and suppressed emotion, visible only in the barest of frowns.

“I don’t exactly dislike nobles. But the pages of history are filled with the names and deeds of nobles who treat the lives of people under their charge as mere pawns for their own ambitions. Hrym is one such example.” He paused, swirling the teacup slowly in his hands. “Equally, there are nobles that rule with wisdom and act for the good of their people. Holst Goneril, for example. Nobility is not flawed, but the nobles themselves might be.”

Intriguing. His views were so similar and yet different to her own. “How would you propose to change the system?”

He remained silent, staring at his tea. She leaned back into her chair, posture elegant and yet open, awaiting his response.

“I’m not a noble,” he finally said. That slight downward tug to his lips remained, barely discernible.

“Humour me,” she said. “Suppose you were in my shoes. What would you do?”

There were no words for some time. He sipped at his tea. There was a certain look about him, but one that Edelgard couldn’t easily place. It wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t exactly regret; neither sorrow nor disappointment. If anything, she would say he looked _tired_, but even that seemed inaccurate_._

“I believe there are two extremes,” he said slowly, lowering his teacup. He looked at her in the eye. That indescribable emotion was still present, so overwhelmingly familiar and yet one she couldn’t describe. “The system of nobility can be abolished, or it can be maintained.”

She waited for his elaboration. He obliged, speaking in measured words. “The former is difficult. War would come at a heavy cost, and even then there is no certainty that the system could be changed. A soft approach would take years; decades even. A ruler would need to be surrounded by a council of like-minded nobles, and _this_ system continued for generations.”

“And the latter?” Again, she waited.

“Nobility would need to be kept in check,” he finally said. “They need to be held accountable.”

“How?”

“I have no answers,” he said with finality, sighing deeply. He seemed so tired that Edelgard didn’t pursue her inquiry further. That on its own told her much of his mindset.

“I see.”

He disliked nobility, that much was clear, but he would not approve of her methods. That strange expression equally defeated and tired mirrored her views from a time long past, when she had been a naïve child unable to reconcile the necessity of what had to be done and the price that must be paid. It was a completely ambivalent response, one of crippling indecision. The years had taught her that there was only one answer.

It would mean that he wouldn’t be swayed to her side. Unfortunate. He would have been a valuable ally, but he didn’t have the conviction to change Fódlan through the only language that nobles understood. _Conquest_.

“Shall we talk of more pleasant matters?” she suggested.

“Please.” He poured himself another cup of tea, the rich aroma invigorating her as its scent wafted past her nostrils.

From there, they chatted on all sorts of mundane matters. He was remarkably well-read in history, with knowledge of military battles and tactics across the ages. He discussed the legendary figures of history that had changed Fódlan for better or for worse, ranging from the likes of King Loog to Holst Goneril, hailed as the Leicester’s Alliance greatest general.

For someone who had professed such a great desire to stay away from nobility, he had great insight into political affairs, even going so far as to discuss predictions based on complete hypotheticals. He had raised so many possible paths that the future of Fódlan could take when subjected to changes ranging from the loss of a minor House to the destruction of the Empire itself, each of them plausible and valid.

Despite her thoughts, she found herself engrossed in the discussion. Byleth was certainly capable. His interests were so similar to her own, that were times and circumstances different they could have truly been friends. It was a pity that he had to stand against her. In time, he would need to be eliminated.

“That was a lovely tea, Edelgard,” he said, sipping the last dregs of his tea.

“Indeed.” She patted and smoothened out her clothes, rising to stand. “I would not be averse to a future discussion.”

“That sounds lovely. We could perhaps have some training with weapons or magic as well,” he said diplomatically. Edelgard couldn’t tell whether or not he truly meant it, but there was something odd in the way he spoke of magic. Curious. She was merely an amateur, capable of casting a single _Fire _spell. Still, training would be welcome. Caspar had been singing his praises all month.

Then he sighed. _A fake one._ “While I do understand the reasoning, I would appreciate if Hubert didn’t see the need to keep an eye on me.”

She couldn’t help it; she started. What? There was a brief sound of rustling of leaves, as Hubert emerged from behind a convenient patch of foliage in the garden, out of sight of both her and Byleth.

Or at least, he _should_ have been out of sight. How had Byleth known?

She knew, of course, that Hubert wouldn’t trust anyone to be alone with her. He’d done this for years now, and she had never been able to convince him that she was more than capable of protecting herself. Of course, in this particular instance, had Byleth truly wished her harm, she doubted even she would be able to hold her own.

“You must forgive me, Byleth,” Hubert said smoothly, straightening out his own military uniform. “Ensuring Lady Edelgard’s safety is of paramount importance. I did not mean to insult.”

Again, Byleth gave a fake, shallow sigh. It was theatrical, engineered.

“Of course. I would not mean her any harm, but I could hardly get in the way of your duty.” He gave a final nod. “Until next time, Edelgard.”

With that, he took his teacup and left. She watched his retreating figure until he was long gone from sight.

“Hubert. Was that truly necessary?”

He gave a slight bow. “Lady Edelgard. You know that I must take any possibility of you coming to harm very seriously.”

“Hmm.” She hummed, accepting his point for now. Alone with Hubert, she could at least let down some of her walls. She trusted him fully, given that both of them were willing to do what was necessary for the betterment of Fódlan.

There were more important matters. If Hubert had been spying on them, he had to have heard everything they discussed. “Your thoughts?”

“I believe that Byleth is more than he seems. Regrettably, I do not foresee that he will be willing to join our cause.”

“I believe the same.”

There was more, though. Byleth had called out Hubert’s presence for a reason. He wasn’t the type to simply boast of his abilities. Their conversation had shown him to be a pragmatic person, much like herself. It was almost uncanny.

He had given that choreographed sigh for some purpose. That kind of perceptive ability and understanding of his surroundings was far more than what a mere squire should have been capable of. He had demonstrated it to prove a point.

What was it?

“Should we be concerned, Lady Edelgard?” Hubert’s voice took on a mildly threatening tone.

It clicked. Byleth had let some of his abilities show, _precisely_ to let her know that he was more than he seemed. That if she tried taking action against him, he was more than capable of retaliation. It was not done out of petty one-upmanship or egotism.

It was deterrence.

“No,” she told her loyal aide. “For now, we do nothing. We will continue to mingle with the students, and find those willing to fight for our cause. We will await for our allies’ next move, and we will be ready when the time comes.”

“As you command, Lady Edelgard.” Hubert bowed once more.

Byleth was far more than he seemed. She couldn’t sway him to her side, but she couldn’t simply eliminate him either.

Would he fight against her when the time came to destroy the Church? Or would he stay on the sidelines? She had no immediate answers.

All she knew was that her plans would need to accommodate for his presence.

-o-o-o-

Dimitri raised his lance before him, catching Petra’s sword with the shaft of his weapon. He pushed outward, sending the student from Brigid away from him, as he danced back and readied for another thrust.

“Ooh, nice one, Dimitri!” Annette said in her usual bubbly voice, launching another volley of _Fire _toward Lorenz. His fellow noble quickly raised a magical shield of his own, bearing the brunt of his teammate’s spell, but was still forced backwards all the same from the concussive force of the ensuing explosion.

“Sorry, Lorenz!”

“It is quite alright, Lady Dominic.” He coughed as he slowly stood up from where he’d been thrown, his normally impeccable dress shirt in a state of disarray. He made his way off to the side, where those that had already been defeated were watching the battle unfold. “This defeat can only be attributed to my own lack of skill.”

It was now just Dimitri, Annette, and Caspar up against Felix, El and Petra. Caspar and Felix were brawling it out on their own, the Fraldarius heir having earlier lost his sword in a risky and yet tactical endeavour by Ignatz that saw himself being taken out of the fight. Unfortunately, Dimitri knew just how talented his childhood friend was even without a blade by his side. Caspar would find it difficult to overcome his foe.

He didn’t have time to worry about that, however. Already, Petra was moving toward him once more, her fluid and graceful movements befitting the hunters of legend spoken of in Brigidian tales. She was fast. Dimitri swept his lance out, making full use of the longer reach of his weapon, but Petra leapt over his swing that aimed at her legs. He hurriedly moved to raise a guard of his own to block the follow-up strike, but…

Petra simply moved _past_ him.

_She’s going for Annette._

He tried to turn, to catch her with the long reach of his lance before she left his range, but Petra was simply too fast. She’d already reached Annette, her sword aimed at her shoulder, while a glyph was already manifesting in the air, building up to unleash a spell at point-blank range.

Blade bit into shoulder right as _Wind_ cut at abdomen. Both fighters staggered backward, retreating a few steps each.

“Alright Annette, Petra, that’s enough,” Byleth called out from the side where he’d been observing this bizarre training session that incorporated members of all the Houses. “Everyone else, continue.”

It was an idea that Dimitri approved of. All his fellow students would become fine nobles in charge of their own Houses in the years to come, and this exercise was something that would help to foster relations between them. It was like the mock battle and the upcoming Battle of the Eagle and Lion, without the rivalry and tension and an actual chance to work _together_ rather than against each other.

Caspar and Felix were still duking it out on their own. Just he and El, then.

His childhood friend and stepsister held her axe with both hands. Her stance was one that allowed great versatility, able to fluidly move into a strike of her own or to catch the point of his lance with the axehead. It was one that he knew very well.

“Just like old times, El?”

Her calculating eyes narrowed. Dimitri felt a thrill of amusement run through him. El was always the serious one in battle, even when they were but children swinging wooden swords and lances.

“Focus, Dimitri. This isn’t a simple spar.”

“Of course.”

She frowned, such a familiar scene. She always did that when they sparred, which of course meant that –

He dodged to the left, expecting the strike to land where it did. He retaliated with his own swing, using the blunt end of his lance to strike at her heavy armour, seeing as he didn’t have the space needed to generate the momentum for a forceful thrust. She read him equally well, dodging out of the way of his counterattack, her axe returned to its former position once more.

They knew each other too well. This was going to be a stalemate.

Those days with El seemed so far away. Life was so different then. His mother in all but blood had been around for both of them. Father was stern, yet kind and loving for all his family and subjects in the way that Dimitri so longed to become. Glenn had been around, always eager for a fight, entertaining Dimitri and Felix as they peppered him with questions on the finer arts of combat with all the innocence of children.

Such simple times…

Then the Tragedy robbed it all away.

No, he couldn’t think of it, not right now –

_It should have been you._

He saw their faces, as he always did. They never went away. They hounded him from the corner of his vision, in dark corners and shadowed hallways. He heard _their_ voices, Father and Mother and Glenn and their knights –

The knights. Fighting to their last breath as fires raged around their camp, beset by treachery and unseen assailants. Blood pooling all around, the taste and scent rusty iron so overwhelming he couldn’t breathe. Loyal knights slain as they fought till the end to protect their liege, to protect Father and Mother, to protect _him._

_You killed them._

Father, imploring him to avenge the dead moments before his head had been cut clean off, Glenn already dead by his side. As his head rolled across the bloodstained floor, he caught a glimpse of his eyes, death locking its gaze for perpetuity. His eyes; pleading, imploring.

For what? To avenge him? To run? To live?

He ran. He ran, until he could run no more, and then he limped.

He stared at his bloodstained hands. Not his own blood, but from those that died protecting _him_. Blood on his ears from when he’d tried to keep the sounds out, to put an end to the screams of the dying and crackles of flame. His own cries lost in the chaos of the massacre, as he ran aimlessly in any direction so long as it was _away_.

_Coward. You left us to die._

_I die for you, my prince._

_Avenge the dead._

_Live, Dimitri._

_You abandoned us._

Vengeance. Forgiveness. Retribution. Understanding. Sacrifice. Love. Justice.

_Contradictions. _None of it made any sense. The voice of his father imploring for vengeance, the screams of knights yelling for him to run while they fought to the last man. Knights shielding him bodily against their unknown assailants, his father’s head rolling on the floor. Sounds and images blended together, and he couldn’t hear what he was supposed to _do_, why he’d been left alive while everyone else had to die. Some demanded vengeance, and yet some fought for him to live.

Their ghosts were clawing in now, their incomprehensible screams so loud against his ears. There was the pungent scent of blood, the shouting, the _‘thud’_s as lances were released from knights that breathed their last –

“BOAR PRINCE!”

The ghosts cleared. They retreated to the dark corners as they always did, their ethereal forms every-present and yet always disappearing the moment he turned. The sounds were dampening, he could hear, he could see –

Edelgard was on the ground, her axe abandoned on the ground below clutching at her abdomen. For the first time, Dimitri saw weakness and uncertainty in her eyes.

What?

The scent of blood never faded. His hands – they were wet, like they’d been before.

He dropped his bloodied lance.

Felix hurled him onto the floor, and Dimitri didn’t react, barely registering the fact that he’d collided with the floor. His gaze was locked on El’s body, slouched over, as Byleth rushed to her side, a bright glyph already forming in the air.

“You wild boar!” Dimitri’s head was turned sharply by forceful arms, Felix’s face twisted in an expression beyond anger. “Do you truly crave blood so much?”

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The ghosts were there, mocking him, taunting him, begging him, scolding him, incomprehensible demands and pleas that he couldn’t ignore or understand.

Felix released him, and he slumped over onto the floor. “Beast,” he spat a final time.

“El –“ he tried to say. “I didn’t –“

“It was an accident,” Caspar said nervously. _Fearfully_? “Right?”

“Training’s over for today,” he heard Byleth declare. “I’ll be taking Edelgard to see Manuela.” He’d stopped casting his healing spells. That meant that El was going to be alright, surely? He hadn’t just –

“I’m sorry.” His words were mangled, butchered, like the knights from –

He had to get away from this. He couldn’t see El looking so vulnerable, looking like _him_, back when the fires raged and blood pooled and –

He left.

The voices and blood accompanied him.

-o-o-o-

“I heard about what happened from Manuela,” Jeralt said slowly. “She’s not pleased.”

“She has no reason to be pleased.” Byleth looked more tired and defeated than he’d ever seen before. “I should have seen it coming. I was debriefing Annette and Petra, when I should have been paying attention to Dimitri.”

“No one could have known.” From the second-hand accounts of those who’d been at the fight, the boy had fought with reckless abandon, with none of his usual calm and precise strikes of his lance. He’d caught Edelgard entirely off guard, fighting in a way that was completely different than what Jeralt had seen during the mock battle.

He’d seen it before in the chaos of battle. Knights that honed their skills over decades of service punching and clawing at their enemies, relying only on their basest instincts. The Tragedy must have hit the boy harder than he thought. He would need to tell Hanneman to keep an eye on him.

“_I _should have known.”

Byleth was blaming himself for someone no one could have foreseen, when he had no reason to. A few weeks ago, he’d fought for Lonato’s surrender, risking his own life in the process, simply for the slimmest chance that his men would stand down. From the way Alois had described how he had returned with Lonato in tow, he hadn’t even given the slightest thought to the fact that he’d been injured. He was shouldering blame, taking on more burden than he needed to. He didn’t value his own life, taking risks that he shouldn’t.

He now knew the reason for that look in his eyes, why he seemed to carry such a heavy weight in his soul.

It was _guilt_.

But what reason did he have for that?

Jeralt had joined him more than once during his training, and he’d finally realised what was so strikingly familiar about the way he fought. Each Swordmaster would come to develop their own form over years of practice, each suited to their unique physical build and preferred type of blade. He’d come into contact with many over the years.

Byleth’s technique was an amalgamation of many other Swordmasters’ own. There was Thunder Catherine’s preferred method of swordplay, one that relied on the legendary strength and long reach of her Hero’s Relic. Byleth had combined it with _Jeralt’s_ own style that he’d taught his son, a form suited for mercenary work, relying on short blades and dirty tactics. There were elements of the standard Fraldarius forms, a regimental and disciplined form of fighting that worked to pressure an opponent and slowly force them to yield. There were others he recognised but could not name, old pictures in manuals he’d read as a knight that detailed methods from the Empire, Kingdom and Alliance.

He had blended them together, flowing seamlessly through them all, distilling their underlying philosophies into his own refined style that suited him in a way each Swordmaster did their own. That kind of work took decades of experience, not just by practice in combat, but also required active discussions with other masters of the craft. This wasn’t something Byleth was capable of.

He had asked Byleth about it. He claimed he had come across them in a text he’d studied, but this wasn’t something that could be picked up simply by reading or observing.

It meant that Byleth had lied to him.

Byleth _never_ lied. Sure, even as a child, his son wasn’t expressive, took things far more seriously than most, and wasn’t the sort to chatter incessantly as kids so loved doing. But through all of that, he never lied.

This Byleth was perplexing. There were moments where he acted like the son he so loved, but then there were moments where Jeralt couldn’t recognise him. Was it that he now couldn’t trust his _son_ too? Had Rhea, or whatever else was causing these sudden changes taken that away from him as well?

Worse, Byleth wouldn’t confide in him just what was going on. Jeralt so desperately wanted to know why he carried such guilt and how he could help his son, but forcing him to speak would only push him away. He had to talk, to start with the small things.

“Don’t blame yourself.” Jeralt shook his head, then changed the topic. “Has Alois informed you of your mission for the month?”

Byleth nodded, although he still clearly appeared troubled. “All the Houses and the knights will be working on security for the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth.”

His own students were adamant that the missive was a ruse, and he was inclined to agree. An obvious plan that detailed the assassination on Rhea was a clear diversion. The kids believed that those who had worked with Lonato aimed to carry out an attack on the Holy Mausoleum to steal the relics and possessions of the Saint within, and Rhea had approved his house leader’s request to guard it.

“Where will you be stationed?” Jeralt asked curiously.

“Alois and I will be patrolling the grounds. We’ll be coordinating the knights.” His son frowned, the slightest of wrinkles on his forehead a clear sign of his deep thought. That hadn’t changed since the time he was a child. “And yourself?”

“Claude’s requested for us to guard the Holy Mausoleum.”

His son’s eyes narrowed slightly. Concern? “Be careful.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Your old man’s not going to let any of his students die.”

“Not just them.” Byleth shook his head. “Be careful for yourself as well.”

Jeralt snorted. “I’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t one to brag, but he was known as the Blade Breaker for a good reason. He took every threat seriously, even one as unlikely as an attack on the Mausoleum, but he’d faced worse foes in the past and survived.

“Promise me.”

It was almost cute how Byleth was concerned for him. He knew he wasn’t the best father, but he was pretty sure that their roles were supposed to be reversed. Moments like these affirmed his belief that this was still _his_ Byleth, despite all the mysteries that surrounded him.

Even now, their relationship was improving. His son was talking to him more frequently; actual _talking_, not just the one-sided conversations where he’d simply nod, shake his head or give one-word responses. Coming to the Monastery had been an excellent idea, despite how much pain it brought to have to walk past _her_ grave everyday with all the memories that simple action carried.

“Sure thing, kid,” he humoured him. Byleth’s face was deadly serious. He smiled softly. That boy cared far too much. He should probably take this seriously. “I promise.”

His son relaxed only marginally. “Good.”

Neither of them carried the conversation. Jeralt sighed. Why was this so difficult? How could he connect with his son? He thought back to how Alois had slowly rubbed off on him over the years, since the time he had been a squire as a child.

Ah, the memories. Eleven-year-old Alois was nothing like he was today. He certainly had more original jokes back then. Why couldn’t Alois have learnt something _else_ from himself?

Initially, he’d been but a recently orphaned child, inconsolable at the loss of his parents. He rejected all attempts by the Church to integrate into the community at Garreg Mach, hiding away in solitude. Jeralt had come across the boy crying one day – not that Alois would admit it to anyone who asked – and found him strikingly similar in appearance to his previous squire, bless his soul. On a whim, he offered to allow Alois to become his squire.

He slowly found himself in a position that was a bizarre combination of friend, sibling, parent and mentor. He knew that this experience as a child was why Alois projected that sense of friendliness and helpfulness that he did. He remembered just how he’d managed to get the child to lower his walls, and he couldn’t help but smile fondly.

“Byleth,” he said, standing from his chair into a lazy stretch. Byleth tilted his head toward him. If it worked with Alois, maybe this could get Byleth to relax? “How would you like to go fishing?”

-o-o-o-

There was something strange going on with Byleth.

Claude wasn’t one to take things at face value. He liked to think that he _knew_ people in a way deeper than what they revealed to the world. It was only natural that they would hide their innermost thoughts. He certainly did the same.

He knew that Edelgard was more than simply the perfect heir to the throne that she presented herself as. There were times where she had far too much conviction in her words, or where she’d become distracted in her own thoughts during idle conversation. That spoke of some sort of plan she had for the future, but not one that Claude could figure out. It was vexing, but then again Claude had plans of his own.

There was Dimitri, the prince who Claude had honestly believed he had been able to get a read of. Loyal, compassionate, helpful to a fault; that seemed to fit how he behaved and interacted around the academy. Then, word had spread of just what had happened during one of little Teach’s joint training exercises, and he had to revise his mental image of the prince. It seemed that Dimitri, too, wasn’t all as he appeared.

He knew that people in his House had issues. Marianne shied away from the rest, spending her days in the church, gardens and stables where she thought no one would watch. She saw herself as _separate_ from her peers, but Claude couldn’t fathom the reason as to why just yet. Hilda appeared lazy, if only because she hated having to bear the burden of responsibility. She was more than helpful in working at meaningless tasks that held no consequence.

Leonie had a sort of _complex_ with Jeralt and to a lesser extent his son that Claude wouldn’t even begin to dissect. It was probably harmless, anyway. Ignatz and Raphael had a strained relationship, and he pieced together that it had something to do with their shared childhood. Lorenz was clearly in the Monastery to keep an eye on Claude, but he’d also been helpfully attempting to guide him in his future role as leader of the Leicester Alliance.

Then there was Lysithea. He didn’t know what was going on with her and Byleth, but since their meeting she’d been more studious than normal. He’d had to drag her away from the library on more than one occasion where she’d been poring over archaic tomes, sketching diagrams on scraps of paper.

She had looked fatigued, a mess of books and parchment scattered around the table, completely unlike the tidiness she’d been working with before. At least he still managed to force her to get some rest by scaring her with some ghost stories. That particular titbit he’d learned from none other than the honorary professor himself was paying massive dividends.

And of course, there was Byleth. If the rest were hard to read, he was virtually a walking contradiction.

He was the son of Jeralt the Blade Breaker, the famous Captain of the Knights of Seiros and later a famed mercenary, and yet he wanted to become a lowly squire. Even in that position, he showed no actual interest in squiring, spending all his time on the training ground or working with other students. It was as though he wanted to simply be at the Monastery, but surely there were far easier ways of achieving that if that was his goal? It wasn’t as though the Church barred entry into Garreg Mach.

He’d seen the way Byleth acted. He was kind to his peers, almost like how he thought Dimitri had been, taking the time to teach he and the rest of the students. He didn’t call him little Teach or honorary Teach merely as a jest; as far as he was concerned Byleth earned the title. Yet, he could also be downright vicious, employing tactics that showed no concern for chivalry or fairness. They’d even gone so far as to recently have a discussion on poisons, making use of Claude’s extensive knowledge of exotic deadly substances found in Almyra. To him, what mattered were results.

He was genuine, and yet artificial. He was friendly, and yet distant. It didn’t make sense. If Claude absolutely had to describe him, he would say that he was an _outsider_, much like himself. But he was also different, acting as though he both belonged and didn’t belong here.

One thing was for certain, though. Byleth didn’t mean he or the other students any harm. He heard just how he’d helped Ashe in the fiasco with Lord Lonato, both during the battle and in the aftermath of the assassination. Ashe had been training with Byleth far more than he used to, even after considering how he had previously already been diligent. He’d spotted them training with bows and lances at the training ground, and then at the stables where he’d been learning to ride.

It was obvious. Ashe intended to become a Bow Knight. But why?

It was a mystery, but one that Claude would solve. He certainly had dug into his fair share of secrets in the past.

At least with the pair frequenting the stables, Marianne had been forced to interact with them, particularly since Dorte the horse was friendly enough for a novice like Ashe to learn to ride on. He wouldn’t need to intervene there as much. Say what you would about him, but for all that Claude wasn’t a zealously helpful person like Dimitri or someone that took responsibility as seriously as Edelgard, he still looked out for those under his charge. Especially those he viewed as friends.

Byleth was a great mystery, and Claude delighted in solving curiosities. He would leave no stone unturned here. It was why he was now up and about early in the morning, at a time where only he and Ashe would be at the training grounds.

“Hey, little Teach!” He smiled, a sincere one. He suspected that unravelling the living riddle that was Byleth would be oh so very interesting. “Mind if I join?”

He looked at him, and Claude took the opportunity to study him closely. Ah! For the first time, Byleth looked genuinely surprised. It was only mildly, but he hadn’t ever seen the man caught off guard before. Claude looked at Ashe, who had paused in his archery practice at the interruption. He had a kind of singular focus about him that had consumed him over the past weeks, since the time that Lonato died. It spoke of determination and conviction, but revealed nothing else to Claude.

“Grab a bow,” Byleth said, already turning back to look down the archery range. Ashe did the same, drawing another arrow from his quiver.

Claude smiled. If nothing else, this would prove useful for improving his own expertise. He delighted in mysteries, but the joy in solving them came with the journey. In time, he would find out just why Byleth seemed to be both so much an outsider like himself, and yet so integrated into the community of Garreg Mach.

-o-o-o-

Soon, it was the twenty-sixth day of the Blue Sea Moon.

The stage was set. The Agarthans would make their first direct appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …is it truly a Three Houses fanfic if it doesn’t contain at least a mention of one or more of tea parties, gifts, lost items, faculty training or fishing?
> 
> I couldn't get over that one support/event with Edelgard where a dialogue option raised Hubert's support when he wasn't there, and absolutely had to write him into that scene.
> 
> That's all that I've written so far. I'm been staring at the 200 words I've written for the next chapter for a good few hours now.


	8. Crest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crest: n. Highest level above a certain reference point that a river will reach in an amount of time;  
n. distinctive device representing a family or corporate body, borne above the shield of a coat of arms;  
n. blessings bestowed by the Goddess, Crests grant special powers to those who hold them (lol)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only reason why I began writing this story is to unironically use this as a chapter title.
> 
> Very very very (you get the point) uncertain about uploading this chapter, but writing it has been too frustrating. Most of it is just… well… bad. I felt like banging my head against the keyboard so many times while writing it, and even then I’m sure what comes out would be better than the travesty of words strung together that is this chapter. Just uploading it before I delete it all again and give up on trying to fix it. Might try and rework it again in the coming days.

It was the day for the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth, and Byleth knew that the Death Knight would make his move. Even with the changes to how events normally played out that he’d already come across in this life, the fact that the Agarthans had planted the fake assassination plan on Lonato’s person indicated that the attack would carry on as planned.

They always struck in the evening, when Rhea and Sothis were fully concentrated on the Rite of Rebirth. The students were distributed around the school, reinforcing locations where they didn’t have enough knights to cover for their defence. He and Alois would patrol the grounds, checking up on where his knights were stationed around the school.

Privately, he was a little concerned. Jeritza was normally in place within the school, allowing him easy access to the Mausoleum. With him out of play, how would things change? Would they target somewhere else? The school held more than its fair share of Crest Stones, after all. He wouldn’t put it past the Agarthans to use the opportunity to strike at the Holy Tomb instead. It was why he had suggested for frequent patrols to Alois. If anyone took out their knights, they would know as soon as possible.

Over his past lives, he still didn’t know exactly how their group had entered the monastery. He highly suspected that the obscure method of teleportation utilised by the Agarthans was what allowed their infiltration, but there was no way of being certain. In the lives where he’d already been inside the Mausoleum guarding the coffin at the time of the attack, the Agarthans entered through the main entrance to the Mausoleum. On the occasions where he’d purposely delayed his House’s entry, they would already be in place, working at unravelling the magical seals placed upon the coffin.

If things happened on schedule, the Agarthans should be just about to begin their infiltration. If they assaulted the Mausoleum, Byleth knew that Jeralt and his students were more than capable of handling the defence of the Holy Mausoleum. If _he’d_ been able to do it in his first life, his father was certainly able to do so as well.

“Notice anything, Byleth?”

They’d been at the marketplace for some time now, keeping an eye on the merchants and other civilians going about their business. It was fairly crowded, with stalls set up selling food items or other souvenirs to commemorate the day of the holy festival. Anna, ever the opportunistic merchant, was busy cajoling her customers to buy whatever items she was selling.

“There doesn’t appear to be anyone suspicious.”

Then again, if the Agarthans _were_ changing their plans attempting to find them would be difficult. With how they’d been able to disguise themselves, he doubted that even he could pick them out in a busy crowd like this. There was a reason why Monica had been able to successfully infiltrate the Monastery.

Alois gave a final sweep of the marketplace. Satisfied that there was nothing out of place, he turned around, beckoning for him to follow. “Alright, Byleth. Let’s move to the next location.”

He nodded toward Alois, and they moved toward the main reception hall. Along the way, they passed by the lone gatekeeper keeping watch of the entrance. He gave a quick salute alongside an enthusiastic ‘_Nothing to report, sir!’_

After the many years of hearing the gatekeeper give the exact same greeting, a change in the way he was addressed was honestly jarring. Alois thanked the man on duty, and the pair continued onward.

Again, they gave a quick inspection of those that remained in the repeption hall. There weren’t many; most had already left toward the main courtyard and the base of the Goddess Tower where the devout members of the Church would partake in the festival in their own capacities. After another quick report from the pair of knights stationed in the area, they continued onward toward the long hallway that led toward the rest of the Monastery.

“You’re quiet today, Byleth,” Alois commented. “Even after considering your usual dour mood.”

“I’m trying to concentrate,” he half-lied. He was attempting to keep his guard up and search for anything suspicious, but thus far everything seemed to be in place.

It was a testament to how seriously Alois took his duties that he refrained from giving too much commentary as they went about their tasks. The only times he spoke were when they reached their checkpoints where knights were stationed.

Byleth was always on the lookout, looking searchingly at individuals who loitered just a little too long around corners, but ultimately decided that they weren’t a threat. He figured that any Agarthan infiltrators would have better ways of going about their tasks than studying the many religious statues and carvings that adorned the grand hallways, or as he’d seen on one occasion thus far, sharing an intimate moment between themselves.

He wasn’t one to judge. Maybe they were just exceptionally pious members of the Church soaking in the atmosphere. Goddess knows how easily Fódlan’s woes could have been resolved if everyone shared their ideology.

“You worry too much.” Alois shook his head, allowing himself a brief respite. “We’ll know if anything happens.”

He made a non-committal sound. That kind of thinking had cost him so much in the past, more so in this life. There were so many things he should have seen coming but hadn’t. Lonato’s death and Dimitri’s relapse to his inner demons were things he could have easily avoided.

“Perhaps a little joke will help?” Alois suggested. Byleth groaned. If this was going to be one of his usual rehashed jokes…

“So, there was once when Jeralt and I were at a village on a mission. There, we met the ugliest mercenary –“

Ah. That one. “Bandit; dying to give it to you,” he rushed to the punchline. The comical widening of Alois’ eyes and the spluttering he made was funnier than the _actual_ joke, Byleth noted with amusement.

“But that – how – no matter!” Alois recovered, a strange enthusiasm in his eyes. Byleth had the feeling he just made a terrible decision. Alois began to think hard, then looked at Byleth challengingly. “So, the other day, I tried to make a sword with two handles –“

“It was pointless.”

“Which side of a Wyvern –“

“The outside.”

“A Warlock walks into an inn and says to –“

“For no Reason.”

Alois staggered backward, clutching at his chest theatrically, but the grin on his face gave away his true emotions. Byleth sighed.

“Enough. This is serious. We’re supposed to be –“

There was the sound of rapid footfalls. Alois straightened up immediately, all trace of his amusement gone. They didn’t even need to share a look before they reacted. Together, they rushed toward where the sounds were coming from.

_The cathedral. _

_The Holy Mausoleum was below the cathedral._

It couldn’t be, though. Jeralt and his students should have been able to easily fend off any assault from them. Did they have a change in their plans? Why –

They ran as fast as they could toward the long bridge that linked the entrance hall to the cathedral wing. In the distance, he could see Leonie running toward them from the other side, her short hair unkempt and windswept, sticking to the sides of her face.

“Alois! Byleth!” she shouted amidst rapid breaths, not at all letting up until they met near the end of the bridge. “Thank the Goddess! You need to help, there’s an armoured man on a horse –“

_What?_

The Death Knight never attacked, not once in his many lives. He claimed that he didn’t take orders from those of the Western Church, but the grim truth of it was that he simply didn’t see any of them as a threat _worth_ his effort.

“…Jeralt’s fighting him off, but there’s too many of them –“

But that was for any of _them._

Jeralt was a Knight of Seiros. A famed mercenary. The legendary Blade Breaker. He had more titles and accolades than his students and himself had put together in past lives.

Byleth was an utter fool.

Once again, he fucked up.

“Leonie, was it? Head to the courtyard, call for reinforcements –“

Alois in his heavy armour would slow him down. Leonie was exhausted. Reinforcements would take too long. There was only him.

“…Ignatz is injured, we need to –“

He moved.

“BYLETH!” He ignored the shouts at his back.

Byleth _ran_. He left the pair behind where they were on the bridge, clearing it as fast as he could. He brought every trick he had learnt as an Assassin to the fore so long as it meant he could move _faster_. He vaulted over church pews, transitioning seamlessly into a rapid sprint without any loss of momentum. He held a blade in his hand, the beginnings of a spell already carved into his mind.

He didn’t think he could win against the Death Knight, not with the equipment and meagre few months of training that he had thus far. His scythe was simply too unnaturally powerful, crafted by Agarthan magic and technology. His armour was equally tough, virtually impossible to penetrate with blades. The only times he managed to kill the Death Knight were with backup by his side, by subterfuge and underhanded means, or by equally arming himself with Relics of legendary power.

It didn’t matter. His mistake, his _hubris_ had caused all of this to happen. He couldn’t let Jeralt die, not here, _earlier_ than when he would meet his end had Byleth never interfered. He could not fail his students.

He would fight anyway. The Death Knight was no scarier than Death itself, and he was well acquainted with the concept.

-o-o-o-

Emile von Bartels. Jeritza von Hrym. The Death Knight.

Those names meant nothing to him. _Names_ had never been part of his existence.

He had been valued for his Crest by his false father, and for his prodigious skill in combat by those that had opened his eyes to the truth. Between those two, he would willingly choose to fight, kill and die for the latter. They had given his existence a purpose. If it provided a challenge along the way, that was all the better for him.

Those Beasts that dared call themselves gods were responsible for the curse that had plagued him for all his life. It was only fitting that it was by his _Crest_ that he would destroy them utterly. If this mission helped Thales advance those goals, then he would gladly see it through.

Of course, he wouldn’t cooperate with the filth of the Western Church. They were equally blinded by their false goddess, the Beast that had gifted Fódlan its greatest curse. When the mission was over, he would kill them himself. He was certain that Thales would not object.

He moved quietly through the grounds of the Monastery, holding his cloak tightly over his form. He wasn’t here as Jeritza von Hrym, but it mattered not. If foregoing the Mask meant that the Church would fall, he could reveal the Face of Emile von Bartels for a few more hours.

How unfortunate it was that he’d been forced out of the grounds. This could have gone far more smoothly had he still remained in his guise as a fencing instructor. So conceited were the Beast and her blind dogs that no one had suspected him capable of treachery.

At least he’d been allowed to silence the foolish man that had thought he could join forces with the Church. Thales would not suffer such betrayal. Ah, how delightful it had been, slaughtering those pathetic knights as they fell one by one to his scythe. He hoped that Rhea – _Seiros_ – could have heard their screams from the tower she resided in.

Then there was their prisoner. He had tried attacking – _attacking! –_ him with but his own arms and legs. It had been pathetically easy forcing him aside, binding him using the manacles he’d found within the cell. He had thrown curses at him, and intriguingly revealed that he knew just how the Tragedy was orchestrated. It was at that point, of course, that he saw fit to alter the mission. Just a little, of course.

He saw the despair in the man’s eyes when he realised just what he had unknowingly revealed, and he relished in it. To the man’s credit, he withstood the cuts of his scythe admirably. Thales had claimed that its edge was forged and enchanted to be unmatched in battle, but clearly something was lacking if the man still refused to yield.

Ultimately, he saw the futility in attempting to break the man. He had certainly been similar as a child, before Thales had lifted the veil from his eyes. It was unfortunate that he had become blinded by the Beast’s false promises.

He had swung his scythe across the man’s abdomen, a single strike aimed carefully to transect fully across. He left him bleeding there, still shackled against the wall, repeating only two names as life drained beyond the point of mundane and magical healing.

‘Ashe’ and ‘Christophe’, was it? Or had it been ‘Asher’ and ‘Christopher’? They meant nothing to him.

Names meant _nothing_ to him.

(_Mercedes. Thales. Solon. Flame –) _He suppressed those thoughts_. _They meant_ nothing_.

…what was the man even called again? Monato? Lorato? Lorenzo?

No matter. The mission would soon begin. He made his way to an isolated area of the cathedral, known only to him. Jeritza von Hrym had always sought solitude. There, he took out the magical device gifted by Thales, one whose operation was known only to the rightful owners of Fódlan that had been forced deep beneath their own homes by the Beasts. He activated it, bringing one of Thales’ underlings to the Monastery.

“Death Knight.” He greeted, handing over the equipment that marked that Name. He turned around respectfully.

A wise choice. None who saw the Face of Emile von Bartels would live. (_Mercedes. Thales. Would they live or die?)_

He put on the Armour and Helmet. He took hold of the Scythe. He activated the device once more and brought forth his Steed.

He became the Death Knight. Emile von Bartels was no more.

“Come.” He rode atop his horse, moving out from the obscure corner of the cathedral wing towards the entrance that would lead them into the cathedral. He didn’t know how Thales could have known about this entrance, but his people and Garreg Mach had existed for millennia, diligently plotting to slay the Beast. Secrets such as this would have been unravelled over time.

The cathedral was quiet. The congregation for the festival that the blind flock celebrated had been over for hours, having proceeded into the main courtyard and the Goddess Tower itself. If the Beasts had planted the seeds of their own demise, he would willingly make use of their arrogance. The mage followed him silently.

Good. Silence was preferable. They made their way down the long, winding stairwell that would bring them to the Holy Mausoleum, halting just outside the door.

“Call them.”

The mage brought forth a device of his own, and then withdrew a vial of blood. He infused the device with archaic magics that drew from both himself and the sacrifice he offered, summoning the pawns that would fight for them.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty. They materialised one by one, staggering as they appeared, looking around wildly.

“WHA –“ one of them shouted wildly as he attempted to re-orientate himself. “Where are –“

He was silenced with a swing of his scythe. Nothing would compromise this mission.

That seemed to sober up the remaining members of the Western Church, for all sounds ceased. Weak and untrained fools. Had the veil of the Beast truly rid them of common sense?

“We move.”

With that, he pushed open the door to the Holy Mausoleum, his horse trotting along past the streak of blood left behind from severed carotids, the separated head only now stopping as it rolled against the wall.

“Professor!” a voice shouted from past the door. He heard the sounds of swords being drawn, of spells being loosed, of arrows in flight.

A wave of flames impacted against his armour, dispersing immediately. Dark energies collided with his person, but not even a scratch was left. Arrows bounced off his thick armour plates.

He scanned their faces. Nervous students. Pathetic. They were supposed to be of his age, but still they trembled in their boots. They would not prove to be a challenge. His assistance would not be required in dealing with them.

(_No Mercedes, then. He felt something strangely warm –_) No.

The fodder that he brought advanced past him, engaging in combat with the students. The way they fought was like watching children at play. Both groups’ movements were clumsy, unrefined; their instincts dull, hesitating in the midst of combat.

But among those that followed the Beast, there was one that stood out. A grizzled man wielding a lance, a long scar on the edge of his zygoma. He carried a shortsword by his side – steel, he could tell – leading the students against his minions from the Western Church.

He knew the man well. Jeralt the Blade Breaker, former Knight of Seiros and famed mercenary, and now a mere pawn of the Beast. His name had weight. He had so longed to fight against the legendary warrior himself in his guise of Jeritza von Hrym, but the mission took precedence. At last, he could have a true challenge.

“Death Knight!” the mage shouted. “Clear a path to the coffin!”

He bid his steed to gallop toward Jeralt, scythe held out to the side, ready to sweep. The warrior reacted well, not even hesitating as he threw his lance toward his mount. With the speed that it was moving, his mount could not dodge. The tip of the lance shattered as it struck one of the legs of his mount, but it managed to crack the armour plating where it was struck, the shaft burying into the leg. His charge was halted, his mount crippled. It seemed that the Blade Breaker's name held up to its reputation.

He leapt off his mount. It would be of no use to him here, immobilised as it was. With a single swipe, he ended its life.

“Jeralt the Blade Breaker,” he said. He could feel his heart pounding, as it did whenever he faced a true challenge worthy of his attention. “We will fight. You will die.”

-o-o-o-

This foe was dangerous. Death Knight, the mage had called him. His visage certainly suited the name.

He was clad in an impressive set of armour that left almost no part of his body exposed, made of a material Jeralt couldn’t identity. He wielded a scythe, a notoriously difficult weapon to master. If that wasn’t enough, his scythe was sharpened at the tip, capable of functioning as a lance as well. The way he carried himself spoke of true experience, entirely comfortable with his weapon, studying Jeralt with a deadly calm.

The challenge he issued wasn’t even phrased as such. He spoke with certainty, as though the outcome was never in question. Only arrogant fools or those who could back up their words with experience spoke that way, and he doubted it was the former. This was clearly their leader.

He was down a lance. It was made of reinforced Silver, for the Goddess’ sake! Just what kind of armour did he and his mount wear?

He withdrew his blade, wary of the opponent in front of him. The battle hadn’t even started yet, but he was already at a disadvantage. He would need to call for help. Closest to the door was –

“LEONIE!” he shouted. “Run! Get help!”

“But Professor –“

“THAT’S AN ORDER!”

He couldn’t spare a second glance to see whether or not she had left. The Death Knight moved, a high-pitched whine ringing as his scythe cut through the air in a horizontal arc. Jeralt leapt backward, sword still held before him, looking for any opportunity to attack. He wasn’t foolish enough to attempt parrying the strike, after what happened to his lance as it struck the armoured horse.

“IGNATZ!” He heard Raphael shout, but he couldn’t spare a moment to look. He couldn’t even spare the time to worry about his students. He was in enough trouble as it was.

His opponent didn’t let up. He stepped forward, readying another swing, and Jeralt had to spring over a coffin behind him to avoid the strike. Stone shattered from the force of his swing. The Death Knight’s arm recoiled from the force of his attack, and Jeralt attempted to use this window of opportunity to attack.

Striking at the exposed areas between the armour pieces was the only option that would be of use against someone with armour the likes of his. He thrust his sword out in a penetrating lunge aimed between the chest-plate and pauldron.

The Death Knight reacted quickly, catching the point of his sword precisely in the middle of his scythe-blade, a gauntlet-clad hand gripping the small portion of the shaft just above the crescentic edge of his weapon, the other hand just below. The Death Knight shoved his weapon forward, and Jeralt’s arm shook as he was forced backward. He rode on the momentum, creating some distance from his opponent.

This Death Knight wasn’t just experienced. He had the power to back it up, and Jeralt didn’t know whether he could win even if he had his lance.

He stole a quick glance at a group of his students. Raphael was furiously grappling at two opponents, using his large form to protect an Ignatz that was kneeling on one leg, a long gash cut across his tunic. He so dearly wanted to check on the rest, but his foe just wasn’t letting up.

Damn it. They really needed help, fast. Where was Leonie now?

He leapt backward once more, dodging yet another sweep of the scythe. With the distance he’d moved so far, he’d be up against another coffin in another bound; and then there would be only a few more rows left before he couldn’t retreat further. He stole another look at the students.

Lorenz was assisting Raphael, sending out waves of spells against enemies while the larger boy held the line. Hilda, Claude and Lysithea were another group of their own. Ignatz had been evacuated, Marianne kneeling over his body, casting healing magics. Good.

They had been forced to give up ground. While most of their assailants were locked in combat with his students, some had managed to slip past, heading toward Seiros’ coffin on the altar furthest from the entrance. Was that their true goal?

He couldn’t dwell on it. The Death Knight was attacking once again. A second leap backward, and he could feel the stone coffin behind him.

“Disappointing.”

The Death Knight prepared to swing his weapon again, and Jeralt took the chance to strike, this time aiming for his eyes where it was unprotected. Another thrust, but one that was blocked yet again. In the time that the Death Knight moved to guard, he retreated over the next row of coffins once more.

Only two more rows. Once again, the Death Knight simply shattered the stone coffin with a single strike, then continued advancing toward Jeralt. He simply couldn’t fight _back_. If he had a throwing lance or javelin, he might have had a chance to use its penetrative power to break his opponent’s armour, but the steel sword in his hand simply wouldn’t suffice.

Another repeat of this one-sided battle, and he was cornered against the wall. He attempted to reposition himself, but his foe was _fast_. He thrust his scythe outward, and Jeralt was forced to dodge to one side.

Too slow. He was caught on the shoulder of his sword-arm by the point of his scythe, piercing through flesh and bone alike as pain spiked through the joint. His arm fell to one side, and he was forced to transfer his sword to his off-hand.

He couldn’t win, not disabled as he was. On a fair fight, using identical equipment, he might have a chance, but using a simple steel sword as he was, he wouldn’t even be able to penetrate through his armour.

Damn it. They would all be slaughtered at this rate. All he could do was buy time and hope that the students could escape.

“RUN!” he shouted, charging right at his opponent, releasing the sword from his arm.

“Teach!”

His sudden change in intention must have caught the Death Knight off guard, because Jeralt was able to bodily tackle him. He barely staggered, weighed down by his armour as he was, but Jeralt was already bearing the entire weight of his body down on his enemy's dominant arm in an attempt to catch him off balance, gripping tightly with his sole functioning arm.

It didn’t work. The Death Knight flung his arm outward. Jeralt been positioned with his back directly against the wall, and his head collided against the hard stone from that simple act. For an instant, his vision blurred, but Jeralt attempted to move to stand anyway.

“Foolish.”

His scythe was raised high. Jeralt barely managed to roll out of the way to avoid being eviscerated. He attempted to stand, but an armoured boot caught him in the side. The air was forced out of his lungs. An instant later, the tip of his scythe caught him in the knee with another burst of pain, and he knew that it was over.

He wouldn’t be able to move freely, and he couldn’t even swing his sword. He knelt, forcing all the weight on his good knee. He looked at the Death Knight, still approaching slowly, his menacing visage a mask of indifference.

He’d made Byleth a promise. He wasn’t going to be able to live up to that promise.

“Farewell.”

The lance stabbed into his abdomen. Another flare of pain and moisture. His vision darkened. If he was going to die, he would hold the memory of his son in his final moments.

He remembered how they’d fished just days prior. He remembered his son’s smile, how he had seemed to be at peace for the first time in a long while.

“_FATHER!”_

And now he was hearing his son’s voice as well. The Goddess must truly hate him, to torment him so in his final moments.

There was a burst of light and heat, the sound of rapid footsteps and a frenzied yell, and then darkness overtook his world.

-o-o-o-

He burst into the Holy Mausoleum, eyes searching only for the Death Knight. He found him immediately, his imposing form hardly inconspicuous. He was at the far end of the room, and in front of him was –

For an instant, cold dread gripped him, and then his heart that was kept alive only by Sothis’ own _burned _with rage.

“FATHER!”

Too far away. The Death Knight was about to lower his scythe. He only had one option.

A glyph formed in the air between the Death Knight and Jeralt. An instant later, a _Meteor_ materialised into being, flying to impact against the Death Knight and launched him away from his father.

All the while, he hadn’t stopped _moving_. His sword had been in his hand the entire time since Leonie’s cry, and he wasn’t even the least bit slowed as he cut through the few underlings of the Western Church that dared to stand in his way. Some landed a few strikes of their own, but they were but scratches to him. He didn’t even process what he was doing, simply allowing experience to be his guide.

He ignored the students as they fought other misled priests from the Western Church. They could handle things by themselves. Right now, Jeralt was the one in danger.

He leapt over ruined coffins, conserved his momentum and then leapt again, all the way until he reached Jeralt’s form. The Death Knight had recovered, moving toward his downed form as well.

They met at the same time.

Scythe descended from above –

A hand thrust out –

The scythe bit down deep into the stone floor, small chunks flying from where stone had shattered, as the magics of _Warp_ dematerialised Jeralt just the barest of instants before scythe could meet flesh.

“MARIANNE! Heal him!” He didn’t waste a single moment, seamlessly moving right into his next plan of action.

He raised his sword, aiming it at the small unarmoured area of his neck between helmet and chest-plate while the Death Knight was still attempting to recover his weapon from where it had been lodged into the stone. He let go of his scythe, moving off to one side.

Rage fuelled his strength, bringing every bit of power he had to the fore, swinging against the armour of the Death Knight. He _knew_ that his simple sword was no Hero’s Relic, unable to do any damage against his armour, but the burning in his chest was overpowering all rational thought.

He unleashed _everything._

The Crest of Flames manifested in the air.

The sword shattered.

To his surprise, the armour _cracked_ where it had been struck. The shining Crest dimmed and dissipated.

“You bear the Crest of Flames.” The Death Knight was alert now, on-guard.

With the many years he had of practicing to use it, he had a small degree of mastery over his Crest, but it was always a double-edged sword. It could mildly boost his prowess in combat, but it was unpredictable and using it always immediately made the Agarthans aware of Sothis’ power that dwelled within.

He’d been killed before by the Death Knight in this very Mausoleum for possessing a power that should have been long dead. Normally, he tried as hard as possible to avoid it until later in each life when he was finally ready to face the Agarthans, but in his mad rush to save Jeralt he simply _acted_.

He couldn’t linger on the thought of whether he’d made a mistake. What’s done was done. He had no sword, but he’d been a War Master in a past life. The Death Knight was equally disarmed.

He punched forcefully where the armour had been cracked, widening the fissure as the smallest of chips of the broken armour fell to the ground. A gauntleted hand grabbed him by the shoulder, and he attempted to twist in an effort to pivot and throw his foe, but his armour was far too heavy. Byleth was sent sprawling off onto the ground, standing up as quickly as he could, but the Death Knight was already able to recover his weapon.

“Death Knight! It’s done!”

“I’m not finished.” He continued advancing toward Byleth.

There was a sound of heavy stone shifting, and then a loud thud.

“What – a sword?” he heard the mage say. He ignored him. _Focus on the battle._

He only had his fists and the hidden iron dagger in his boot, while the Death Knight wielded a scythe and wore armour on par with the legendary Heroes Relics. His only weakness was the smallest of areas on his left flank where his armour had chipped and the barest of gaps where his armour pieces met.

Magic wasn’t an option. While in past lives the Death Knight had been felled by spells from Lysithea and Annette during the war, he simply didn’t have the same amount of talent for Magic that they would have in their prime. The only option that might be able to work here would be an _Agnea’s Arrow,_ but even experienced as he was he would still need a minimum of a few seconds to cast it. That was more than enough time for the Death Knight to capitalise on and launch his own pre-emptive strike.

He needed the Sword of the Creator, but –

“We’re leaving!”

“I said: _I’m not finished._”

He couldn’t see him, but he heard the mage swear, before there was a sound of a rush of air.

The Sword of the Creator was gone. Oddly enough, he registered the fact, but didn’t feel despair at that thought. He couldn’t afford to. All that mattered was the Death Knight. Dealing with the fallout could come later.

The Death Knight was still moving toward him. There was only one remaining option. He had already revealed the secret of the Crest of Flames, so what was one more?

He rushed toward the Death Knight, the dagger in his hand. There would only be one shot at this. It was risky, and he would most likely die, but it had the chance to work.

“Foolish.” The Death Knight held his scythe out, ready to cut Byleth once he entered his effective range. Against a weapon with a long reach like a scythe, wielded by a master like the Death Knight, Byleth’s plan would be virtually suicide in a fair battle. He would have died before he’d even reached his enemy.

Byleth didn’t fight fair.

An instant before the Death Knight would have swung, he put his plan into action.

“Emile von Bartels.”

The Death Knight flinched for the barest of moments, while Byleth continued onward, dagger sailing through the air toward where the armour had been chipped off.

He saw the scythe swinging down from the corner of his vision, and the long years of experience in combat betrayed him. His body reacted instinctively, unheeding of the goal in his mind, reflexively twisting his body just fractionally from the movement in his peripheral vision, his arm twitching just marginally.

What would have been a mortal injury from where a dagger angled up from flank toward his heart turned only into a grievous one. The scythe blade bit deep between the sides of his ribs rather than piercing through his back, barely avoiding having his own heart being cleaved apart through the few degrees of axial rotation of his torso.

Byleth had just barely avoided death, but it cost him victory in return. There was a stabbing agony with each rapid breath he took. The scythe must have sliced through his ribs and left lung instead. He tried his best to ignore the pain. So long as he was still alive, he had to fight.

He tried desperately to withdraw the dagger in an attempt to strike once more, but by then the Death Knight had recovered from his ruse. He pushed against Byleth, hard, sending him against the ground again, sending another lance of agony where his scythe had pierced deep into flesh.

The dagger was still lodged in position. No good, he wouldn’t bleed out quickly enough.

“You know that name.” The Death Knight was clutching at his side, scythe in hand, staggering toward Byleth.

“JERALT! BYLETH!”

_Right on time, Alois. _Byleth tried to take what should have been a momentary distraction to lunge once more at the Death Knight and grab at the dagger, but he was ready, catching Byleth’s wrist with bloodied gauntlets and threw him aside.

“When next we meet, you shall die.”

His body was numb, but still he moved, fighting down the pain that had only been growing. He shot his arm forward, but with a flash of purple light and a rush of air, the Death Knight was gone. His hand grasped at empty air, his momentum sending him_ yet again_ onto the stone floor of the Mausoleum.

He had revealed the Crest of Flames. The Sword of the Creator was stolen. The Death Knight was gone.

He knew those were important, but none of that meant a thing right now. He needed to check on Jeralt.

He tried to stand, stumbling to his feet. Strange, he was now feeling so tired, and his vision was blurry. He took another clumsy step. He fell on the third.

-o-o-o-

There wasn’t a battlefield. There wasn’t a throne. There wasn’t a song.

This wasn’t Remire Village.

The world was far too bright when he opened his eyes. He felt tired, more spent than he’d been in a long time. What had –

The Sword. The Death Knight.

_Jeralt._

He sat up hurriedly, but the action was arrested by the sudden agony that it brought. He flinched, and aching muscles let up, sending him to collapse hard on his back once more.

“Woah!” he heard Claude’s voice. He turned to the sound, but again his world was filled with pain. “Easy, Teach, easy!”

“Where –“ Byleth croaked, his voice harsh. “Where is father?”

“Teach is alive, little Teach,” Claude said, his face coming into view as he knelt by his bedside, an expression equally worried and relieved etched onto it. “Marianne was able to save him just in time.”

_Alive._

He only now realised just how _tense_ his body was. He relaxed, coming to lie on the bed.

“Where is he?”

He heard coughing. “R- right here, kid.”

He forced his head to turn, despite the pain that the simple action brought him, staring at the face of his father in the adjacent bed.

He was pale, bandages were wrapped tightly around his mid-section and limbs, but he was _alive._ He hadn’t just killed his own father from his meddling with time. From his _experiment_.

More faces came into view. There were the members of the Golden Deer and Alois, but also Ashe and surprisingly Felix, who was standing apart from the rest.

“How –“ he rasped out. He forced his burning throat to work. “How bad is it?”

“I’ll be fine. Marianne was able to patch me up fast enough. Manuela says I’ll be back to fighting form in a few days.” His father’s eyes narrowed, glaring hard at Byleth. Were he not bedbound, he had no doubt that he would be marching right over to Byleth. “_You,_ on the other hand, will not.”

“It was –“ He coughed once more. “- was only a punctured lung and fractured ribs.”

“_Only _a punctured lung?” Felix repeated sarcastically, a hint of anger in his voice. “The scythe nicked your _heart_. You’ve broken a wrist and your knuckles. You’ve got burns and cuts everywhere. Your kneecap was shattered. You’ve been in the infirmary for _three days._ Tell me, how is that '_only_ a punctured lung and fractured ribs'?”

So the Death Knight’s scythe had managed to reach his heart, after all. Beating though it may not be, blood still flowed through it. He knew that well enough from past experiences of exsanguination. That explained why he’d blacked out so soon after the battle. Someone must have healed him up shortly thereafter. Marianne, perhaps?

As for the other injuries… a broken wrist, perhaps from where the Death Knight had gripped and thrown him aside. Broken phalanges from where he punched against the armour. Fighting with his bare fists just wasn’t the same as using gauntlets, after all. A broken patella, perhaps from when he’d been sent crashing down against the floor. Goddess knows how many times that had happened. But the burns and cuts he couldn’t recall at all.

“I don’t remember burns and cuts.”

He belatedly realised that wasn’t the reply he should be giving, but his head was feeling far too muddled at the moment to think things through. There was far too much he had to deal with before he even had the chance to re-orientate to his present surroundings.

“_That’s_ what you take away from this?!” Felix looked at him incredulously, anger in his eyes. He scoffed. “And here I thought you were different.”

He stepped away from his bedside, then turned and stomped out of the infirmary.

“Felix –“ he tried to say, turning toward the door, but his student didn’t so much as pause.

“I’ll talk to him,” Ashe said, his face far too calm. He knew that Ashe was maintaining his composure for his sake. He used to do that all the time during the war, whenever one of his comrades were injured. “He – he’s just worried.”

“Thanks, Ashe.” He probably wouldn’t need to. Felix always had difficulty seeing his friends injured while he himself wasn’t. Dimitri, Felix and Ingrid each held survivor’s guilt in the aftermath of the Tragedy, only expressed in different ways. “Sorry. I don’t think I’ll be able to help with your training for a few days.”

“Don’t –“ Ashe’s expression of calm broke, lips trembling. “Don’t worry, Byleth. I can work on my own.”

He moved away from the bed. “I… I’ll go find Felix now.”

Byleth sighed. Goddess, this entire day had been a disaster.

“You really don’t remember what happened?” Lysithea asked, her normally level voice shaking slightly.

He tried as best he could to recall the fight. It had been so utterly one-sided, without the Sword of the Creator, any of the Heroes Relics or an entire group of trained knights and mages by his side. He’d only barely managed to force the smallest of cracks in his armour through the power of his Crest, but had in turn revealed the secret he so needed to keep.

“I don’t.”

“You protected us,” she said slowly. “You took their attention. They sent so many spells at you, I – do you really not _remember_?”

Did they? He’d been so preoccupied with the Death Knight, he couldn’t afford to pay much attention to anything else. Their minions from the Western Church might be able to injure him, but the Death Knight came with a certainty of death.

They took his silence as affirmation. “Byleth, you…” Raphael’s voice trailed off, his normally chatty student not knowing what to say. If _he_ had no words, the rest hardly fared any better.

“I’m sorry,” Marianne finally said, looking at him. “I should have been able to help. I should have –“

And here she was blaming herself again. Jeralt and himself both lived thanks to her efforts.

“You saved father,” he said. “And you saved me. Thank you.”

“I…” She didn’t say anything else, and the expression of guilt remained, but she nodded nonetheless.

Claude snorted. “And you saved _us_, little Teach. If you hadn’t showed up, we’d all be dead. Take some credit for yourself. _We_ should be the ones thanking you.”

They shouldn’t. They wouldn’t have died, after all. The Death Knight wouldn’t have attacked them. He wouldn’t even have participated in what unfolded in the Mausoleum at all, had he not interfered with events. Jeralt shouldn’t have been in the Mausoleum. Byleth shouldn’t have been patrolling out on the grounds while his students and his father were fighting for their lives. That was how things had gone in every other life.

He should have known that the Death Knight wouldn’t see his father the same way he did him. He had fought the Death Knight and Jeritza so many times in the past, it was so damned _obvious _that Jeralt would be a challenge worthy of his skills. He’d taken the protection of the Holy Mausoleum as a given in so many lives, only thinking about how the Agarthan’s plans could have changed in the lead-up to today, that he hadn’t even stopped to consider that events could change _even_ when they went with their original plan.

Now the Sword was gone. They knew of his Crest, and they would no doubt know of the Fell Star, and of the power of the Goddess that dwelled within him. He had revealed his knowledge of things he shouldn’t have known about.

The Sword of the Creator in and of itself wasn’t important. It was powerful, certainly, but it was only strictly necessary if he wanted to go up against the likes of the Death Knight or powerful demonic beasts in a fair fight. He could fight just as well with any other weapon. Once his students reached the peak of their prowess during the war, fighting with the Heroes Relics of their families, they could work together and bring down those threats.

What was more important was what it represented. It was a _symbol_, one that could unify Fódlan through what it represented. The false history of Nemesis that had been propagated through eons by Seiros’ teachings had made it an emblematic banner for the people of Fódlan to rally behind. How would the war change without the Sword by his side?

Then there was still the matter of what the Agarthans could do with it. Would they reunite Nemesis with the original version of his long-lost weapon when the time came for his revival rather than the replica they had recreated? Or would they use the final remains of Sothis’ bones and organs for some other nefarious purpose?

The Agarthans had won this battle. He clenched his fists tight, ignoring the fire burning in his chest. This wasn’t the time for anger. He needed to rationalise, to think and plan. _Anger_ had been what clouded his vision when up against the Death Knight. Anger had been his own downfall so many times over.

There was far too much that he didn’t know of. This was uncharted territory for him. What he did know was that he couldn’t afford to see this life as an experiment any longer. He had thought that attempting to get the Houses to mingle together and improve their relations was a harmless endeavour, but it had already almost cost him his father and the lives of his students. He couldn’t sit idle any longer.

They must have taken his deep thought as a sign of tiredness, because Claude was now not-so-subtly gesturing toward the rest. They shared a nod, and he spoke for the group.

“We’ll let you two get some rest,” he said, rising to stand from where he knelt, displaying none of his usual mischief. He pat Byleth once on the shoulder, carefully avoiding where the bandages were wrapped around him. “Take care.”

With that, the Golden Deer students left together with their leader, Raphael almost close to giving him a bone-breaking hug before Lysithea hurriedly dissuaded him from that idea.

Honestly, they were treating him as though he were close to dying.

“Captain,” Alois finally spoke. “Byleth. I’m sorry I arrived too late.”

“You brought reinforcements, Alois,” he said tiredly. He couldn’t deal with so many people piling their apologies unto him when he hardly deserved them. He was feeling angry enough both at himself and the Agarthans, he didn’t need more guilt alongside that. “You chased the Death Knight away. If anything, I should be thanking you. The Death Knight had me dead to rights.”

“That’s not your responsibility,” he argued fiercely. “You’re my squire. I should have been looking after you.”

There was an undertone of guilt in his voice. Byleth could understand why. Alois certainly looked out for the knights under his charge, and now more so for Byleth given his position both as a squire and as Jeralt’s son.

“It’s alright, Alois,” Jeralt spoke, pushing himself up to sit against the head of the bed. He grimaced slightly, a sign of the pain that the simple movement brought. Again, a wave of guilt coursed through Byleth at the injury that his actions had caused. “We’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

“Jeralt…”

“You should get some rest. You’ve been here for almost the entirety of the past few days.”

“I…” Alois sighed. Now, Byleth could see just how _tired_ the man looked. There were dark rings around his eyes and wrinkles on his forehead, his clothes creased and slightly dirty. He didn’t look at all like the jovial man that Byleth had come to know. “We’ll talk later.”

“We will,” his father affirmed.

“You did good work, Byleth,” Alois gave some final parting words. “I’m sorry I couldn’t arrive earlier.”

Soon, it was just Jeralt and him once more. As things tended to happen between them, there was an uncomfortable silence.

“We need to talk,” his father finally said, looking at him from where he sat against the head of the bed. His voice was stern, but his expression was anything but. His face was laced with worry, and again Byleth felt a spike of guilt.

“We do,” he said quietly, pushing against the bed to mirror his father’s position. His aching muscles still protested, and he could feel a stabbing pain from where scythe had carved through flesh, but he did so anyway.

Perhaps were he of a clearer mind, he wouldn’t have been willing to reveal anything to his father, but at the moment he just felt tired, annoyed and bitter about everything that had happened this life. It had been shaping up to be so promising – the Houses worked together in a way they hadn’t previously at this time-point – but his efforts only seemed to make things worse. Ashe had been more devastated by Lonato’s death after what had seemed to be a peaceful resolution, Jeralt had almost been killed five months earlier than he had in his first life, and the Agarthans had won a battle they previously never had.

How could it be, that the _one thing_ that Byleth had been fighting for all these years had only made matters worse? Had all his previous lives been for nothing?

“I heard from the students,” his father said, studying Byleth’s face carefully. He didn’t bother schooling his expression. It would take far too much effort. “You possess the Crest of Flames.”

“I do,” he admitted. There was no sense lying about that.

“How?”

This was it. He could reveal the truth, or he could lie. He knew his father wouldn’t accept silence as an answer, and that spinning a web of lies was harder than it seemed.

His father wouldn’t believe a grandiose tale of time-travel-by-death. It was a far-fetched notion, even to _himself_ after all these years. The full truth couldn’t be disclosed, but maybe…

“What do you know about Crests?” he asked instead, probing at just what he could reveal.

“Hmm?” His father must not have been expecting the question, because his worried expression morphed into one of slight surprise. “They are blessings bestowed by the Goddess, that grant special powers to those who hold them,” he recited. “That’s the stance of the Church, at least. My own major Crest of Seiros came after receiving some of Rhea’s blood.”

“The Goddess, huh?” He sighed. This was it. Still a far-fetched idea, but one that was more believable and partially the truth. “The young girl from my dreams? She called herself _Sothis.”_

Jeralt started, inhaling sharply. No doubt he knew the Goddess' true name from his time in the Knights. “You dream of the _Goddess?!_”

“I’ve not seen her since that night in Remire Village,” he half-lied. “Since then, things have been different. I know how to fight with different sorts of weapons, and I know magic.”

“Why haven’t you told me about any of this?” Jeralt sat up, alert, looking at him with both worry and anger. “I could have helped you, I could have –“

“What could you have done?” Byleth sighed. No one in his many years had been able to resolve the time loop. “Why would anyone believe that I possess a gift from the Goddess?”

“_I _would.” He looked at his father quizzically. He usually was far more doubtful when Byleth tried to reveal even a portion of his circumstances. “I’ve seen you in the training grounds. Your technique wasn’t learnt from a manual. It takes decades of work to reach your current level of mastery.”

_Decades _was putting it mildly. He’d spent years with Thunder Catherine, then Felix, Jeralt and many more Swordmasters from all around Fódlan, and then many more lives working out something versatile enough for his use.

“That’s not all,” his father continued slowly. He hesitated for a moment, but Byleth saw how he steeled himself, tensing up slightly. “You’ve seen things.”

His heart didn’t beat, but still he felt a thrill of _something_ rush through him. “What do you mean?” he asked levelly.

“I’ve been a knight captain and a leader of a mercenary band for a long time, kid.” He sighed, but continued looking at Byleth unwaveringly. “I don't know what you've seen, but I know that there’s something going on with you.”

What he’d _seen_? Byleth could have laughed. He’d probably have seen more devastation than anyone alive in Fódlan, Rhea included. She may have witnessed the massacre of her people, but Byleth had seen his students and friends die over and over.

“I don’t know how it relates to what’s going on with you, and I won’t pry,” his father assured him, holding a palm in the air. “But I’ve seen my men fall apart because of guilt, loss and grief. Whatever you’re feeling, you can’t bear this burden alone. Let me help you.”

His voice adopted a pleading and earnest tone, and again Byleth felt that rush of emotion once more. He wished he could share the burden, but this had only been about him since the very start. Only _he_ had been brought back through time itself at the end of each of his lives. What help could he possibly deliver?

He couldn’t tell his father just what would happen in time to come. He couldn’t describe how he’d seen the bodies of his students and friends many times over, how he’d _killed_ them with his own two hands. He couldn’t tell his father how he had seen _him_ die.

Just how could he _help?!_

He didn’t know what to do. He was feeling so bitter, angry and confused. He had aimed to use this life to test how he could establish a degree of control over the war to come, but for all the successes he had the recent failures far outweighed them. Fail to intervene with the war, and fate would always find a way for him to die and reawaken in Remire Village. Foster relations between the Houses, as he did in this life, and the Agarthans were stronger than ever.

Each action he took merely led to the same final outcome. Was this to be his fate? To experience only failure?

He refused to accept that. He wouldn’t let all the time he’d spent so far amount to nothing. He couldn’t simply resign to watching everyone he had grown to love and care for die for the rest of eternity.

His father still seemed to want to ask more questions of his own, but was visibly restraining from doing so. He was grateful; he doubted he could come up with decent answers with his thoughts as jumbled up as they currently were.

“What would you do,” he began asking slowly. “If you were up against an enemy so powerful that nothing works against it? If every plan you create only hastens your own demise?”

His father didn’t offer any false reassurances or probe further into his question. He simply considered his question seriously, and Byleth was thankful for it.

“_No one _is infallible,” he said imploringly. He stood up very slowly, walking on shaky legs toward Byleth. He ignored Byleth’s hurried gestures for his father to remain seated, instead moving to kneel by his bedside. “If nothing works, approach from a different angle. Bring allies to help you. Think out of the box. Find their weaknesses, because _everyone_ has a flaw. Use every advantage you have.”

It wasn’t particularly useful advice. He knew all of that. He knew that he couldn’t take on the Agarthans alone, but his students were hardly able to help him out as they were right now. When they were finally ready, the war would have long since begun, and there wouldn’t be any hope of cooperation between the talented students from all three Houses.

His father continued speaking. “The Death Knight was a formidable opponent, but you did well. You cracked armour that shattered reinforced silver. We know about him now, and we can prepare. The next time you fight him, we will work together to bring him down.”

Funny. His father thought that he was talking about the Death Knight? It was so close, and yet simultaneously so far off from the truth.

Still, there was some advice there he could use. He couldn’t rely on his students just yet, and so his sole advantage was foreknowledge. He knew their identities, and he knew their plans. The Agarthans may have won the first battle, but they would come to see just what Byleth was capable of. He would level the playing field.

It was the final few days of the Blue Sea Moon. The Verdant Rain Moon would soon come. The situation with Miklan would be resolved, having already anonymously sent off the letter to House Gautier detailing the upcoming theft. Just in case, he had added some details of House Gautier's estate that Sylvain had previously told him in a past life, which should ensure that they take his warning seriously. He couldn’t think of a conceivable way that matter could change from past lives, even after accounting for what had already changed in this life. Miklan simply didn’t factor in the Agarthans’ plans.

He would have a free month to make his move. The sense of defeat, anger and irritation he had been feeling was now focused, sharpened into a singular goal. He would cripple the Agarthans. He would need to strike back just as hard.

He would kill Cornelia, and then he would kill Solon.

-o-o-o-

It still stung where the dagger had penetrated deep into his flesh. Thales’ mages had worked fast to heal it, but even then the wound had been severe.

“It is done.” He handed the Sword over. Thales inspected it.

“The Sword of the Creator… the final remains of the Goddess. The weapon wielded by Nemesis himself. The Crest Stone may be gone, but still there is power in the Sword. How long have we waited for this moment?” he said reverently, then looked over at him. “You have done well, Death Knight.”

He nodded. “There is more.”

“Oh?” Thales looked at him inquisitively.

“There is one who possesses the Crest of Flames.”

“Truly?” Thales looked at him, alert. “You are certain?”

A pointless question. He could recognise any Crest. Thales had made sure of it. “He cracked my armour.”

“The Crest of Flames… but Nemesis had never sired children. What could Seiros have done…?” Thales mused. “Your injuries were caused by him.”

He nodded.

“A formidable foe, then.” Thales paused, considering what he had been told. “Who is he?”

“Byleth Eisner, son of the Blade Breaker.” It was a name that he would remember.

“What is your assessment of him?”

“He knew of Emile von Bartels.”

For the first time, Thales appeared startled. “Impossible. No one should know.”

“He did.”

“Impossible,” he repeated, deep in thought. “He possesses knowledge he shouldn’t. Perhaps…” Thales looked toward him. “Tell me. Was he the one that had captured Lonato?”

Ah, Lonato. That was his name. “Yes.”

“So, we have to assume he knows of _us_ as well. What else could he possibly know?” Thales mused. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. It is invaluable information. We will need to hasten our plans going forward.”

The plan. How could he carry it out when Jeritza could no longer enter the Monastery? “The Beast in the guise of a girl?”

“Indeed,” Thales confirmed. “We have to assume that Solon’s identity has been compromised. He will need to make his move soon. I will be arranging the details with him. You have done well.”

He took that as a sign of dismissal, leaving Thales alone to his thoughts. As he walked away, he thought of the latest name worth remembering.

Byleth Eisner. A man of formidable skill and talent, in possession of the Crest of Flames itself. He knew they would meet in battle once again.

He remembered how his blood roared and sang as they fought. He had every advantage with his Scythe and Armour, and still he had proven a challenge. Byleth Eisner had exploited his weakness, almost killing him in the process. He would not allow such weakness to fester.

Out of sight, he held the talisman bearing the Rafail Gem that had been gifted unto him by Thales. It was one of the Heroes Relics, part of the greater whole of any who bore the Crest of Lamine.

It was also the reason why he still lived. Byleth Eisner’s dagger should have found his heart, but the Relic bestowed unnatural protective power to any with his Crest.

_(He was saved by a Crest.) _The same Crest had ruined his life.

Emile von Bartels was dead. That name meant nothing. When next they fought, Byleth Eisner would die.

None who knew the name of Emile von Bartels could be allowed to live.

_(Mercedes. Mercie. He knew her Name. She knew his Face. And yet she lives.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah. I might rewrite this again if I find the motivation, but even just re-reading it now is an exercise in frustration. Sorry for the disappointment. I have no actual clue how to characterise the Death Knight, and just came up with something. (hides away again)
> 
> Edit: Advance warning - the pay-off from everything being set up is going to be ridiculously underwhelming.


	9. Thalweg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thalweg: n. (Hydrology) a subterranean stream that percolates under the surface and in the same general direction as the surface stream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meh. Really disliked just about everything about this chapter and the next. Sorry all. Things sounded a lot better in my head before trying to put it into writing. Had big problems with motivation in writing this and trying to get it in a believable way but I’ll just upload this for now. I had several ideas in mind before the previous chapters, but with how I wrote things leading up to now I boxed myself into this one that I had a metric crap-ton of trouble writing. Sorry!

“Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own?”

It was the third time he had been asked that question. Looking at how concerned Jeralt was for his sake, Byleth couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, standing up from his bed and making a show of moving his arms and legs for emphasis. “See? Manuela’s patched me up. I’ll be back to normal in a day or two.”

“Make sure you don’t overexert yourself,” Jeralt warned, critically appraising Byleth for as he stretched his limbs. “Even healing magic can’t cure all wounds.”

“Of course,” he lied. “You take care on your mission as well.”

The Golden Deer were heading off for their mission, one that would take them deep into the territory of the Leicester Alliance. Apparently, Holst Goneril was dealing with some bandit gangs hiding out in the mountain range separating Goneril lands from Almyra, and had requested for the help of the Church in clearing out the threat. He couldn’t simply mobilise his soldiers to drive them out, due to the lingering threat of being caught off-guard by Almyra launching an invasion when their troops were deployed.

It meant that Jeralt and his students would be away from the Monastery for a week or longer, depending on how long they took to locate and eliminate the bandits. Goneril lands were located right at the eastern edge of Fódlan, after all. It was excellent for Byleth’s upcoming plans. The less scrutiny placed upon him, the better.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Claude added cheerfully.

“That hardly excludes anything. Is there a thing that you _wouldn’t _do?” Lysithea scoffed. “I’ve even seen you climbing and hanging upside down from bookshelves in the library.”

Byleth had wondered whether it had been the right idea to inform her about how her Crests were interfering with her ability to utilise Black Magic, but over the past month she had been looking less haggard than she’d previously been. He assumed that Claude was putting the vague hint he’d given him regarding Lysithea and ghosts to good use. Since the assault on the Mausoleum, though, some of the signs of stress had seemed to return.

“Please, Claude, you must refrain from such jest,” Lorenz berated. “Such foolish behaviour is unbecoming for one who would lead the Leicester Alliance.”

“’Unbecoming’, Lorenz?” He clutched at his heart dramatically. “You wound me. There’s a reason for it, you know.”

Ignatz grew curious, and Byleth could not deny his own intrigue. Claude never seemed to run out of antics across his lives, but this one was particularly unique.

“Why would you do that, Claude?” Ignatz asked.

“Training, Ignatz. Training!” Claude twirled around on the spot to look at the meek boy, folding his hands behind his head.

That was enough to draw Jeralt’s attention away from his son. Worried though he may be, even that bizarre admission required further inquiry.

“You climb bookshelves in the library,” he stated in an entirely deadpan tone while staring at Claude, who remained unflinching. “For training.”

“Of course! Petra said it was a valid method of training!”

He didn’t elaborate any further. Byleth took it upon himself to ask what was on everyone’s mind.

“You’re telling me that _Petra_, huntress and warrior princess from Brigid told you to climb a _bookshelf_ for training. The same Petra who, earlier this month, hunted down and chopped off a feral wolf’s paw, then presented it to Caspar in the training ground because he said to ‘_give him a hand over here’_ in a training exercise _days_ prior. _That_ Petra?”

“Yes, little Teach! See, you get it!”

Byleth sighed. If he was going to be like that, someone else could deal with him.

Jeralt grit his teeth, forcing the words out of his mouth. “How, exactly?”

“See, I was out in the fields taking a walk when out of nowhere _Petra_ drops from the tree in front of me,” he described theatrically, waving his hands about him. “Little Teach is always going on about how we could stand to learn between Houses, and we’ve just finished one of little Teach’s joint training exercises, so I asked her if she could teach me how to climb a tree.”

Again, he paused.

“And how does that relate to your behaviour in the library, exactly?” Lysithea finally asked begrudgingly.

“Why, I’m glad you asked, dear Lysithea!” He whirled around toward her, taking far too much joy in the looks of irritation that she and Jeralt were showing. “I couldn’t do it on my first try, so Petra advised that maybe I could start with the little things, you know? Apparently, they do that in Brigid from the time they are children! She said to try practicing on walls, ropes, rock formations, buildings, _bookshelves_…”

_One of those things is not like the others._ Looking around at the others present in the room, Byleth could clearly tell that most of them were thinking along the same lines.

Well, all except for one.

“Woah!” Raphael exclaimed, his eyes filled with a terrifying intensity. “You’re telling me that if I start climbing bookshelves, I can become as awesome as Petra?”

“You’ve got it, Raphael!” Claude flashed him a thumbs up. “The sky is the only limit here! Don’t let your dreams –“

“Alright,” Jeralt cut in, no doubt desperate to put a halt to an impending disaster. “Enough. Raphael, Claude’s just joking. Claude, refrain from making a mess in the library.”

Jeralt eyed him suspiciously, then sighed. When his father wasn’t looking, Claude shot him a wink.

Ah. So he’d deliberately done it to get Jeralt to stop fretting over him, then. Say what you would about his methods, but no one could doubt its effectiveness. Jeralt was tiredly rubbing at his eyes, muttering all the while about _‘damn kids’_.

It was still strange, watching his father interact with the members of the Golden Deer. In past lives, he only seemed to talk to Leonie, and that was only because she actively sought him out. He didn’t think he had ever seen his father interact with Claude before, barring their initial meeting in Remire Village.

At least his method of bringing the Houses closer together seemed to be bearing some fruit. In most lives, Claude would only learn that particular skill a long time after Petra was recruited into his House. When she didn’t join the Golden Deer, he wouldn’t be able to climb at all.

Of course, he did wish that his endeavour had brought more practical benefits than _tree climbing._

“Aww…” Raphael looked downcast. “So I _can’t_ become like Petra then.”

“That’s not it, Raphael,” Leonie said hurriedly. “Just don’t go about practicing on bookshelves.”

“Great!” Raphael returned to his usual jovial mood. “I’ll become like Petra in no time! Just you wait, Professor!”

Thankfully, the door to the infirmary opened at that moment, sparing them any further discussion of Claude’s dubious training methods. Rhea, Seteth and Flayn entered, and from the corner of his eye he could see Jeralt tense just slightly.

So, he suspected Rhea’s involvement in what he’d told his father, then. It was strange that he hadn’t asked for Byleth to keep his guard up around Rhea. Did he have some doubts about him as well? Or was he trying to keep him away from Rhea as much as possible by not revealing what he knew?

“Professor,” Seteth greeted. “Byleth. Students. I am glad to see that all of you are well.”

He hadn’t had much interaction thus far with Seteth in this life, but his treatment of Byleth had been far more ambivalent than past lives. Normally, it took the protection of the Sword of the Creator and then Flayn’s rescue before he would come to view Byleth as anything close to a friend.

“Seteth,” Jeralt returned. “Rhea, Flayn.”

“Jeralt. It is good to see that you have recovered,” Rhea said. “Will you and your students be heading toward Goneril soon?”

He nodded slowly. “We were about to head off after checking up my _son_.” He emphasised the title strangely, equally a threat and reminder to Rhea about the circumstances behind Byleth’s birth. It was information he wasn’t supposed to know about just yet, and the hidden byplay would almost certainly fly over the clueless students.

“We were hoping to speak with Byleth ourselves,” Seteth informed them, nodding toward Byleth. “We have heard the report of what happened in the Holy Mausoleum from you, Alois and the students, but we would like to hear from Byleth as well.”

He could see Jeralt stiffen, and Byleth decided he needed to intervene here. There was no sense in allowing the suspicion and whatever animosity Jeralt might hold toward the Church to fester. They needed to be allies in time to come.

“I’ll be fine,” he reassured Jeralt, then turned to face Seteth. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions.”

“Are you sure?” Jeralt asked, concerned. Byleth didn’t know how aware his father was of what he was doing, but Jeralt’s eyes lingered on Rhea’s form just a little longer than the rest.

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated. Jeralt scrutinised him for a moment longer, then relented.

“We’ll be back in a week or two.” Jeralt gave him a final pat on the back, before moving to leave the infirmary. The rest of the students gave their own farewells as they left.

Soon, the only occupants of the room were the four oldest living individuals in all of Fódlan.

“What would you like to know?” Byleth opened.

“Alois informed us that both of you were alerted to a possible commotion coming from the cathedral,” Seteth began saying. “As I understand, young Leonie was sent by Jeralt to find help once he determined that reinforcements were required.”

Byleth nodded. With the service held in the cathedral long since having moved toward the courtyard and Goddess Tower, the sound of her rapid footfalls had easily cut through the silence.

“They reported that you ran toward the Holy Mausoleum, ignoring their cries for you to stop.”

“Leonie was panicking that father was in danger,” Byleth said, withholding his foreknowledge about what they were facing in the Mausoleum. “He ordered Leonie to get help. I was worried. Could you blame me for rushing to help him?”

Seteth’s eyes softened, not-so-subtly looking toward Flayn. “I suppose not. I apologise. Please, continue.”

“When I arrived, the Death Knight was about to kill father.” His eyes narrowed. He remembered just how close it had been, how the tip of the scythe was poised to pierce Jeralt's heart. He remembered the _rage_ that he felt and the burning in his chest. “I used a _Meteor_ to force him away.”

“You are capable of casting _Meteor_?” Seteth asked, astonished. “I had heard the reports of the students, but assumed that to be a misunderstanding of some sort.”

Byleth nodded. There was no real need to downplay his abilities anymore. The students had probably revealed how his Crest had manifested during the battle. “I am able to cast an _Agnea’s Arrow_.”

“Impressive,” Seteth complimented, a glint of respect entering his eyes. “Truly impressive.”

“Anyway, I tried to fight him in combat, but his armaments were far too powerful for me to deal with. My sword shattered against his armour.”

“The students mentioned that the Crest of Flames manifested during your battle,” Rhea finally spoke, looking at Byleth intensely. _Greedily_, Byleth would almost say. “They claimed that it turned the tide of battle.”

“It chipped his armour slightly. From there, I was able to further expose his weakness by engaging in combat while we were both unarmed.”

He continued thinking furiously as he spoke. Just how much _should_ he reveal to Rhea? Certainly, he couldn’t reveal that the Goddess herself dwelled within him.

“Mid-way during our battle, the mage broke the seal on the coffin in the Mausoleum. He claimed that there was a sword in Seiros’ coffin, but I didn’t manage to see it for myself,” he reported, studying their reactions carefully. “The mage managed to escape by teleportation through a means that I couldn’t identify. I wounded the Death Knight with my dagger, but was injured as a result. Alois soon arrived, and he retreated as well.”

Byleth could still see Rhea’s face tighten when he mentioned the theft, despite her already having had a few days to process that information. No doubt the loss of her mother’s final remains hit her hard. He’d seen her lovingly caress the Sword in his dream of her battle with Nemesis many times over, for the Goddess' sake. Knowing just how vengeful Rhea could become, even going so far as to set Fhirdiad ablaze in some of his lives where he’d fought alongside Edelgard, he wondered just how irate she had been in the immediate aftermath of the battle.

He didn’t even need to ask about what happened to the survivors from the Western Church. They’d been executed for far less in past lives.

“I see. So, we are no closer to understanding just who these enemies of ours are,” Seteth mused, then nodded respectfully toward him. “Regardless, I thank you for your timely assistance. I dread to think what might have become of Jeralt and his students had you not intervened.”

“Have you manifested the Crest of Flames before, Byleth?” Rhea asked. He didn’t flinch under her gaze.

“No,” he lied. “It just happened. I was angry at the Death Knight, and it just appeared.”

“I see.” She sounded disappointed, the hungry look in her eyes diminishing. She continued probing. “Has anything strange happened to you?”

Again, he had to make a choice. Reveal some of his secrets, lie or tell nothing? He couldn’t afford to make enemies of Rhea and the Church, but he couldn’t arouse too much of her interest, either. He hadn’t seen the full extent of just how far she was willing to go to revive Sothis in all his lives.

“I’ve had some dreams,” he admitted. She looked toward him hopefully.

“There’s a battle between two armies. I see a man with a long scar, running down the side of his face.” He gestured as he spoke. “He wielded a powerful sword, a segmented one that could extend, retract and bend at will. He fought a woman using a shield and sword, with hair…”

He deliberately let his voice trail off. If she wanted to interrogate him, he could probe at her just as well. “Come to think of it, the colour of her hair was much like yours, Lady Rhea.”

She tried hard not to react, but Byleth had a great deal of experience in reading her. There was a mix of surprise and disappointment. “Indeed? Is there anything else, Byleth?”

He figured he might as well use a similar excuse to the one he gave to Jeralt for his aptitude in combat. “Since the most recent time that I had the dream, I’ve been able to fight with weaponry and use magic that I’ve not known of before,” he lied again. “I can’t explain how it happened.”

“I see.” She sounded disappointed, but smoothened her tone quickly. “If any other further developments occur, please do not hesitate to reach out to me, child. We shall do our best to help you.”

_And find out more about Sothis in the process, of course._ “Certainly,” he said convincingly. “Thank you very much for your offer.”

Seteth looked toward Rhea, checking to see if she had any further questions. When she didn’t respond, he brought the impromptu debriefing to a close.

“Thank you for taking the time to give your account of events, Byleth. I wish you all the best in your recovery.”

With that, he gave a final nod, Flayn leaving along with him. He hadn’t spoken to Flayn much in this life. Normally his early interactions with her involved odd jobs centred around fishing and working with the dining hall staff, but in his new position as a squire, he hadn’t had to do any of that. Seteth wouldn’t have made mention about him either. He was essentially a stranger to her.

Still, she gave an enthusiastic wave goodbye. She always was friendly and naïve despite having lived over a millennium.

Rhea gave a final long stare toward him, before she too made to leave. He wondered just how much she believed about what he said. Hopefully, the fact that he’d been grievously injured by the Death Knight would dissuade her from thinking that he was one of the Agarthans. In time, he might just be able to reveal more of what he truly knew.

When he was alone once more, he rehearsed the plan for the upcoming week. Alois and Jeralt were gone on missions, which meant that it was his _only_ opportunity to head off on his own without having a constant eye on his movements. If he wanted to assassinate Cornelia during this free month, now would be the most opportune time. He’d mostly fully recovered already, anyway.

During the war, she would make Arianrhod her seat of power, but prior to that she was in the service of the royal family and based in Fhirdiad. He knew a great deal about the Faerghus capital and the palace, having previously been there in past lives on the sides of both the Empire and Kingdom. Dimitri had also offered much information about his home. He knew the positions of guards, the shift durations and timing for shift changes, and even some secret entrances and exits known only to the royal family for their evacuation.

Before that, he would need to restock on his equipment. That battle with the Death Knight had taken both his sword _and_ his dagger. He also needed some other options available to him that were suitable for use in assassination in case he needed to adapt his plans.

He’d already killed Cornelia once in his previous life. This would probably go off without a hitch.

-o-o-o-

Fhirdiad was equally far as House Goneril was from the Monastery. On foot, it would take just short of a week to make the journey, but Byleth had an advantage over Jeralt there. He had taken a Wyvern from the Monastery aviary, cutting the duration of the journey down to less than a day. Given how challenging it was to ride a Wyvern, there were many of the creatures available for him to choose from. He settled for one that he’d used in past lives.

After carefully landing his Wyvern some distance away on a rocky cliff-face, he’d made his way on foot toward the capital, making sure to tether the Wyvern to a nearby rock formation and ensuring a sufficient amount of food for the short duration of time that he would be gone. He hadn’t spotted any predators during his flight, so hopefully his Wyvern would remain safe.

This would be his second time in Fhirdiad prior to the war. It was a pity that he wouldn’t be able to appreciate the sights. He didn’t even enter the city proper, instead making use of a far more inconspicuous method of entering the palace.

He was currently carefully making his way through the aqueducts and sewage system of the capital, making his way through twists and turns that he knew would lead to the palace itself under the light of his torch. He had spent several lives studying this before he’d made his previous assassination attempt, and given its recency he knew just where he should be going.

Carefully, he approached the particular branch that originated from the palace. The shared cesspit that collected waste from the outhouses and latrines of the palace was very thankfully empty. Under the light of his torch, he identified the particular branch that would take him where he wanted to go, and very carefully climbed up the sides of the shaft, using the rocky outcroppings from where the sewage system had been crafted from bricks and stone as his footholds.

Thank the Goddess that no one was disposing of sanitary waste at the time. He hadn’t been so lucky in his last life.

When at last he reached the very top, he extinguished his torch and set it down, then very carefully removed the hatch from which waste was fed in. He tossed off his now-dirty cloak that obscured his entire form, abandoning in to the waste below. No sense in giving away his position by _smell._

He replaced his outerwear with another dark cloak. This late into the night, the halls of the palace were dimly lit, with only the barest amounts of candle-light providing illumination. The royal servants were mostly asleep, and all he had to do was be wary of the guards. He had a dagger in each boot, and a few more on his tunic hidden from sight. Hopefully, they wouldn’t see any use beyond killing Cornelia. He had also brought a shortbow that was currently slung over his back.

The density of guards was highest in the upper floors, where Regent Rufus Blaiddyd had his own quarters. Cornelia, as merely a mage in service to royalty, had no such luxury. She was housed on the second floor that he was now stealthily infiltrating, with only a minimal number of guards assigned to her detail. Two guards kept constant watch just in front of the door to her room.

In his previous life, he had opted to assassinate them as well, taking them down from afar with carefully aimed arrows. Here, he would avoid their deaths as best he could. They were but men doing their duty, unknowingly protecting someone who would doom their kingdom in time to come.

_Footsteps_ _ahead._ He stilled, listening as he tracked their movements, making reference to the layout of the palace that he knew so well. He’d have a few options of hiding – out the window, into an adjacent room, or retreating back to the sewage system he came from. He could –

The footsteps passed around the corridor, failing to spot him behind the corner he was hiding. Just regular patrols, then.

Good. It would mean that the path to Cornelia was now clear. He had a window of a few minutes to move in, take out the guards, take out Cornelia and leave before the next rotation of patrols would arrive.

He waited several seconds, and when he could no longer hear the footsteps of patrols, he moved; quietly and yet swiftly, as expected from someone of his standing. Down the hallway, a left turn, down that hallway, and Cornelia’s room would be in the next one.

Carefully, he took out the arrows he had prepared beforehand for this mission. He had discussed the finer points of Almyran toxicology with Claude two weeks ago, and had come into the knowledge of a particular poison that would suit his needs. It was the extract of a plant the locals termed ‘_twelve-hour death’_, its name a clear reference to its effects.

Anna just so happened to be in possession of a vial of the poison, and he’d willingly paid a frankly exorbitant sum of gold for it. She’d been suspicious, but relented under the excuse of using it as a harmless teaching exercise on behalf of a professor wanting to teach a practical lesson on the necessity of being aware of the threat of poisons.

He could always steal due compensation from Cornelia, once this was all over with. The dead had no need for gold.

He quietly took out his bow, placing one of his laced arrows on the bowstring. He peeked around the corner to get an idea of their position, then hurriedly hid from view once more.

Two guards, as expected. He inhaled silently, then drew his bow.

He stepped out. One arrow flew.

“Wha –“

The arrow hit him just below his shoulder, where the chainmail covering his chest offered no protection. These guards were no Death Knight, and finding such unprotected areas was a trivial task.

He was loading the second arrow while the first was still in flight. The one who was hit cried out in pain, but soon his words slurred as he staggered toward Byleth. He crashed to the floor with a loud thud.

The other guard hardly fared better. He reacted quickly to the threat, drawing his sword in one quick motion, but by then Byleth had already released his second arrow. Soon, both guards were down.

No doubt the commotion would have raised an alarm by now. He had to take care of Cornelia quickly.

He quickly moved past their fallen bodies, opening the door –

\- and came face to face Cornelia, an arcane glyph forming in the air aimed towards the door.

He tumbled quickly, the _Blizzard _clipping against the corner of his left shoulder. Sharp icicles pierced through flesh, but his quick reactions limited the brunt of the damage. The rest of the spell impacted against the wall just behind where he stood, flash-freezing the air where it burst to form an icy barrier separating the room from the hallway he came from.

“Intruder!” she shouted. “Help!”

He was on a timer now. Abandoning all attempt at subtlety, he threw the first of his daggers toward her. It impacted against a hastily raised shield, but he hardly hesitated. A second dagger was now in his hand, making full use of the time window required for her to complete casting of a new spell.

He lunged, twisting his entire body as he stabbed the dagger toward her heart, but the shield still held.

“Who are you? Why are –“

Byleth didn’t bother answering. Again and again, he worked on bringing down the shield. He knew the weaknesses of mages, being one himself. Full concentration was required during casting of a spell, and sooner or later her shield would fall. Already, her hands were shaking with the strain, her eyes darting about as she searched wildly for a way out of her predicament.

The only problem he had was _time_. Already, he could hear the sound of heavy footfalls, a clear sign that the palace guards were mobilising. He had no choice, bringing the power of the Crest of Flames to bear in order to shatter her shield.

“Byleth Eisner,” she spat, abandoning all pretence of innocence. “Do you think Thales will let you get away with this?”

_Thales._ That was the name of the one he had fought in Shambhala, who had given him so much trouble so many times over. Thales knew of him, then. She had just unknowingly fed him information.

The shield finally broke with a final forceful descent of the dagger, piercing deep into her abdomen. He raised it once more, ready to finish it once and for all.

“You – You’ll fail, you know,” she coughed out, giving up any attempt at retaliation. Maintaining the barrier must have been harder than it looked, wisps of blue vapour trailing out from her hands in the aftermath of the magical shield breaking. “The Beast will join the rest of her kind. You’re too –“

He paused. Rhea? “What do you mean?” he finally spoke threateningly, dagger held against her neck, but still carefully watching her hands. Any sign of spellcasting, and he wouldn’t hesitate to end it. “Rhea?”

She laughed weakly. “You’ll just – just have to see.”

“Tell me!” He shook her threateningly, his blade cutting a thin line across her neck. She winced, but only laughed harder.

“Know despair, Byleth Eisner,” she cackled. “Her blood will run along with the rest of her filthy kind. You are –“

The footsteps were approaching closer now. He didn’t have time.

He let the dagger fall, silencing her forevermore.

He was about to step away and leave, but then her form _morphed. _Her face contracted and contorted, wrinkles forming in the skin, revealing features that were pale and disfigured. She became a _male_ Agarthan mage that he didn’t recognise, his face locked in an expression of mockery as he taunted Byleth in his final moments.

His previous assassination of Cornelia hadn’t ended like that.

He’d just been played. Cornelia wasn’t here at all. It explained why her spells had been so weak, why he had been able to break his way past her shield. In his previous life, he had taken her out while she was still deep in sleep, but he knew just how formidable she was in battle from the many times he’d come across her in Arianrhod.

He heard loud cursing just outside, alongside the sound of weaponry hacking away at the ice wall formed from the mage’s errant _Blizzard._

Subtlety was a moot point now. He opened the window, and leapt out into the dark of night, rolling and moving into a sprint. Guards would most likely be mobilising toward the main entrances. He headed toward the garden outhouse, and exited the palace the same way he entered.

At least the corpse of the mage he’d left behind should raise some questions. Cornelia may not have died, but she certainly wouldn’t be able to appear in Fhirdiad again without being involved in the investigation.

His gambit with the Death Knight must have made them more cautious. He hoped that Solon would still be in the Monastery when he returned.

But what had that novice Agarthan mage meant? How did they plan to kill Rhea?

-o-o-o-

Claude hadn’t previously met Holst Goneril, but looking at him now, he could see why he was so respected by the people of Fódlan.

At first glance, he bore a clear resemblance to Hilda. His face was of a similar shape to Hilda’s, only with sharper angles and a more tanned skin tone. His hair was the same distinctive shade of pink, only cut short and less tidy. It wasn’t quite in the style that nobles of Fódlan favoured, and certainly nothing like Lorenz’s or Ignatz’s bowl cuts. Instead, it appeared to be more like his own and those he had seen growing up in Almyra, emphasising coarser and rougher features that reflected the warrior culture of Almyra. It was almost like Nardel’s – _Nader_ the Undefeated in Fódlan, he supposed – if he shaved off all his secondary facial hair and dyed it pink.

He fought down the urge to snicker at the thought of a _pink-haired_ Nardel. If he saw the man again, he just had an excellent idea for a harmless little prank. He _was_ the one who had taught him to always keep his guard up against possible plots and threats, after all.

Holst Goneril’s gaze swept over the crowd of students before him with the same playful look in his eyes that Hilda had. He was far taller, dressed in military attire that emphasised his rugged features. He knew from stories spoken about the man that the Great Knight entered battle in a full suit of thick plate armour while riding a mighty steed, and wielded the legendary axe Freikugel, one of the Heroes Relics.

Beyond the surface, he had a certain _presence_ about him. He held a commanding posture, but not overly stiff like he had seen so many Fódlan nobles adopt. He possessed a quiet confidence, one that demanded respect from those around him. There was an easy-going smile on his face, but Claude could see the gears turning in his head as he evaluated each of the students.

Holst certainly wasn’t like Hilda in that aspect. It seemed he held a healthy amount of distrust from first impressions alone. Claude respected that.

His fellow Golden Deer students reacted differently to Holst’s presence. Ignatz and Marianne were uncomfortable in his presence, while Leonie and Raphael were relatively indifferent, acting like their normal selves. Lysithea respected the man, probably because he hadn’t treated her any differently in his initial inspection of the group. Lorenz, on the other hand, was practically starstruck, a sheen of sweat on the side of his face as he stared at the greatest general of the Leicester Alliance, a man who had held Fódlan’s Locket against the legendary Nader the Undefeated himself.

As for Hilda…

“Oh? Has my dearest sister finally brought her friends home at last?” Holst said teasingly, rubbing the top of Hilda’s head affectionately from where he stood well over two heads taller than her. She squirmed uncomfortably, protesting against his act of brotherly love.

“Holst!” she protested. “Don’t coddle me!”

Claude chuckled. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Hilda act like that before. For all that she respected her brother greatly, she still felt embarrassed at being treated like that in front of her peers.

“Has my little sister forgotten all about me after entering the Monastery? You wound me, Hilda!” he held a hand to his heart dramatically. Claude couldn’t help it; he smiled. He had a feeling that he could get along just fine with this man.

“Ah, but where are my manners?” He turned his attention away from his sister, looking toward each of them in turn. “Holst Goneril, Duke of Goneril. Feel free to just call me Holst. I welcome all of you to Goneril.”

Teach stepped forward, extending his hand in a firm handshake. “Jeralt Eisner.”

“Ah, the Blade Breaker? My sister speaks well of you in her letters home.” He gave another sweep of the students. “I don’t suppose that your son is in attendance?”

Claude wasn’t surprised that Hilda would write home about Byleth. She certainly held the father and son pair in high regard, for all that they impinged upon her ability to laze around. Then again, the training exercises they held were mostly done simply for fun, with no objective beyond training itself, and so Hilda had no qualms against it. She mostly tended to avoid things when they held lasting consequences. She was certainly more than helpful in helping Marianne rearrange books in the library.

Jeralt shook his head. “He’s recovering from a recent attack during the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth. My _idiot son_ chose to nearly get himself killed protecting us.”

Claude could hear the mix of disapproval, guilt and anger in his voice. Teach had tried his best to help them, but that Death Knight had been a powerful enemy.

If he was being honest with himself, Claude too held some guilt over how Byleth, Jeralt and Ignatz had gotten injured. It had been _his_ decision to lead his House in the protection of the Mausoleum, and he had a legendary Knight of Seiros with his team, but even then they still failed in their task. He’d been broody for an entire day, and had even been called out by Lysithea for it.

He’d realised how stupid he was being after a day – courtesy of Raphael’s own brand of wisdom, of course – and had since taken their failure as a learning experience. He simply hadn’t considered how powerful his enemies could be when first taking up the task, and he would not repeat that same mistake again. In future missions, he would need contingencies in place. Had Leonie not managed to call for backup in time, and had Byleth not come rushing in to save the day, all of them might have died. That would be an area of consideration going forward.

“Killed?” Holst sounded astonished.

“They were stealing from Seiros’ coffin,” Jeralt confirmed, then sighed. “If it weren’t for Byleth, we’d all probably have died. That Death Knight who we fought was a formidable enemy that even I couldn’t handle on my own.”

“You didn’t mention any of that,” Holst whirled around toward Hilda, more concern than anger in his tone.

“It was just less than a week ago!” Hilda looked at Holst defiantly. “I was going to write to you if we weren’t sent on this mission.”

“You and I are going to have a long chat about that, Hilds,” he growled. Hilds? Hmm, an interesting nickname. Perhaps he should start using that as well?

“Please extend my gratitude to your son, Professor,” Holst returned to speaking to Jeralt. “House Goneril owes him a great debt.”

Jeralt nodded, then moved on to the actual purpose of their visit. “We would like to find out more about the bandits.”

“Right.” In an instant, Holst’s expression changed to one of seriousness. He rummaged around in a nearby shelf, then took out several neatly-annotated maps of the area, pointing around key landmarks as he spoke.

“Bandits have set up camp around the mountain range here. They’ve been raiding nearby villages, but we can’t mobilise troops fast enough to assist them. We can’t abandon our posts at Fódlan’s Locket to flush them out, either, both because of the potential threat of the Almyrans invading and for the message that it sends to the rest of Fódlan. They need to know that we are committed to defending against incursions from outside Fódlan, since the Almyran threat affects Empire, Kingdom and Alliance alike.”

Claude’s respect for the man increased. So, he wasn’t just known for his skill in combat, then. He had a keen tactical mind, not just for the battlefield, but also in politics and relations with the other major powers in Fódlan. He also didn’t seem to view Almyrans with the same disdain that most people of Fódlan did. He didn’t miss out the way he spoke of a ‘_potential threat’_ rather than the preferred terms most people used. ‘_Barbarians_’ and ‘_savages_’ were words freely thrown about even in the Monastery.

Perhaps he should introduce Nader and Holst to each other one day, outside of a battlefield. They seemed like they could get along if they didn’t have to deal with the responsibilities placed upon their shoulders by each of their peoples. A successful alliance between the two would put his dream of a Fódlan without borders one step closer toward becoming a reality.

“I’ve requested for assistance from the students to deal with the matter. Frankly speaking, I do not believe the bandits to be capable of putting up much resistance, outside of their ability to hide within the mountain range. You students should be more than capable of completing this mission.” He smiled warmly at them. “I used to head the Golden Deer House when I was in the Monastery. From how my sister describes each of you, I believe that you will be more than up to the task.”

“H- Hilda has made mention of us?” Lorenz gasped, then placed a hand over his mouth at his loss of composure. Claude had to do a double-take. Lorenz _never_ lost composure. “F- forgive me, Duke Goneril! My impropriety is inexcusable!”

“Ah,” he said, scrutinising Lorenz carefully. “You must be… Lorenz, was it? Lorenz Hellman Gloucester? Count Gloucester’s son?”

“Yes, Lord Goneril! I mean, Duke Goneril!” Lorenz hurriedly replied, flustered. Nearby, Claude could see his classmates as equally amused and disbelieving as himself.

“Hilds speaks highly of you,” he said, ignoring Hilda’s embarrassed protests. “She describes you as, ah, how did she put it? ‘Helpful in a noble way’, ‘responsible’ and ‘surprisingly sweet’?”

“HOLST!” Hilda tugged at his arm, glaring hard at him.

Lorenz looked shell-shocked, alternating between looking at Holst and Hilda. Well, it seemed that something could cause him to lose that air of nobility after all. Claude would need to revise his impression of Lorenz.

“All right, all right,” Holst sighed at Hilda’s continued poking at his side, becoming serious once more. “Will you all be staying for the night? It is late, and tracking down the bandits may prove to be difficult work.”

“We wouldn’t want to impose,” Jeralt said slowly.

“Nonsense!” Holst denied. “I will ask the servants to prepare some rooms. House Goneril owes you and your son a great debt, Professor.”

Jeralt reluctantly accepted. Claude got the sense that he disliked dealing with the nobility.

“Please, wait here and you will be shown to your rooms shortly,” he said, hailing down a passing member of staff of House Goneril and passing down some instructions. He turned to face Hilda. “Meanwhile, I’ll be having a _nice chat _with my _dear sister_ as to why I am only just now hearing about the fact that she’d almost been _killed_.”

She gulped, and while Holst’s back was turned Claude cheekily ran a single finger across his neck. Hilda glared at him, which only inspired him to become more committed. He alternated between pointing at Holst and herself, then held his hands together in mock prayer.

At the corner of his eye, Claude could see Jeralt watching their interaction, shaking his head all the while. He really needed to lighten up. He had looked more stressed than Claude had previously seen him since the attack on the Mausoleum, but at least he seemed to forget the worry he had over Byleth during his little performance back in the infirmary.

He understood where Jeralt was coming from, but he knew that Byleth wasn’t quite as vulnerable as Jeralt seemed to think. Sure, he had some self-sacrificial tendencies that Claude disapproved of, but there was no doubting just how capable he was. He cut his way through the enemies from the Western Church faster than the Golden Deer students, and Claude was inclined to believe his claim that he didn’t even _remember_ how he’d been attacked.

The Death Knight was only a match for him because of his armaments, but next time would be a different matter entirely. Claude learnt from all his defeats, and this would be no different. He would come up with a plan, work with his House, Byleth and Jeralt, and their next battle would have a completely different outcome.

-o-o-o-

When Byleth returned to the Monastery, his first plan of action would be finding Solon in his guise as Tomas, and if he was still lingering about, to kill him immediately. He couldn't afford to let him escape like Cornelia had. He wouldn't even bother cleaning himself and finding a change of clothes.

In his haste to escape from the palace, he inevitably had to hurry his way through the sewage system. That unfortunately meant that it had gotten more filthy than he hoped. Even though he’d prepared a second set of clothes waiting by where he had left the Wyvern, the stench still stuck to his person.

He landed his Wyvern at the aviary, the beast protesting during their long flight at the putrid scent emanating from his person, then threw open the doors leading to the rest of the Monastery. He was about to run toward the library as fast as he could, but then caught sight of Seteth approaching him.

He braced himself for a rebuke. No doubt that Seteth would berate him for his filthy state.

“Byleth!” he greeted, breathing heavily as he came to a stop, bending over with his hands on his knees. He looked worried and stressed, and Byleth immediately knew something wasn’t right.

He didn’t even make mention of the stench. “Thank the Goddess! Have you seen Flayn? I cannot find her anywhere!”

_No. It couldn’t be._

His blood ran cold. His ears deafened, as he processed just what Seteth had told him. She was kidnapped? Again? Even without Jeritza present? It wasn’t even the right month, but…

The Agarthans knew of him. They had relocated Cornelia. And they were making their move.

“Flayn is not the type of person to just wander off on her own without telling me where she is going!” Seteth continued speaking. “We have searched the monastery thoroughly, even Jeritza’s dungeon, but have found nothing. I am mobilising the knights to search for her, but most of them are off on their missions and…”

His voice trailed off, looking toward Byleth hopefully. _Desperately._

“Please, Byleth! Do you know anything of where she may be?”

The mage hadn’t been referring to Rhea.

He was referring to _Flayn._

And his actions may have just directly caused the death of his student.

“Follow me.”

He didn’t even bother waiting for Seteth’s response, running as fast as he could toward the library, a dagger in his hands as his heart pounded and thumped without beating. He would find Solon, and he would employ any means necessary to force him to _talk_.

He hoped beyond all hope that Solon was still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Planning to have Holst come in a little after the time-skip, given how much he was talked up in the GD route. I won't actually be covering their mission later. I kind of gave up halfway while writing this chapter (and the next), and you can probably identify the exact point where I lost all motivation. Haven't re-read it just yet, so there will probably be quite a lot of mistakes.


	10. Rapid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rapid: n. a fast-flowing and turbulent part of the course of a river;  
adj. happening in a short time or at a great rate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some rather AU elements here. I have no idea what I'm writing, and not very happy with how this turned out. Fixing the trainwreck that is this story might be a little hard now, though.

The library doors burst open. So, Thales had been right after all.

He calmly observed as Byleth – no, the vessel of the _Beast_ – scanned the room, locating Solon just nary a moment later. He saw how his lips snarled in rage, the dagger in his hand moving in flight. Were he unprepared for such a scenario, Solon may have been injured, but this confrontation had been set-up to his advantage. The Death Knight had reported him to be a formidable foe in close quarters, but in the expanse of the library his spells would find purchase before the Beast’s dagger could strike.

“SOLON!” He knew of his name, then. Curious. Solon had abandoned the guise of Tomas, the kind and elderly librarian, revealing his true form that the Beasts had robbed he and his people the freedom of wearing in the surface world eons ago.

Byleth was retrieving a second dagger with one hand, his other hand glowing as he shaped the magics of a spell. Interesting. Solon studied the glyph, identified its function, strength and potential threat, and -

He lazily raised his hand. The first iron dagger impacted harmlessly against it, followed closely by the second dagger. A _Meteor_ manifested in the air, rapidly impacting and blasting against his shield, but still it held. Byleth was a gifted mage in shaping and understanding of magic, of that there was no doubt, but his actual magical prowess could hardly be compared to Solon. He had judged the _Meteor_ of being incapable of shattering his shield.

Really, the Death Knight had difficulty dealing with _this?_

“So, Thales was right,” he casually commented. “The Beast lives.”

“_Where is she_?!” His foe was already in motion, attempting to close the distance between them, deftly avoiding the waves of _Miasma _that Solon had sent toward him. Impressive, but the Beast would fall all the same. Solon recognised the _Sagittae_ that had been returned toward him, and he temporarily halted his offense to raise his shield once more. The physical manifestation of Black Magic couldn’t even so much as crack his shield, merely disturbing the vapours of thick smoke emanating from where the _Meteor_ had struck.

Byleth was still moving toward him. The _Sagittae_ had been but a feint, a means of forcing him on the defensive while Byleth himself advanced. Solon’s eyes narrowed, reshaping the spell he had in mind into something else that would force distance between himself and his foe, who even now was darting between tables and kicking off bookshelves as he advanced toward Solon.

“Enough!” Solon shouted. A wave of force emerged outward as he collapsed his spell, blowing Byleth backwards mid-charge. The Beast recovered gracefully, flipping in the air to land on his feet, preparing a second wave of spells even before he landed. He was good, but Solon was better.

He allowed the _Fire _to strike him, barely causing him any damage with the resilience to magic that he had. He used the chance to unleash his chosen spell, the magical glyph forming in the air rapidly. The world around his foe darkened, space itself warping and bending, drawing the debris created from their fight toward the epicentre of the spell. Solon saw how his opponent’s eyes widened, changing the direction of his approach as he tumbled aside.

The cast of _Death_ completed, malevolent energies collapsing inward, ruined tables and chairs being crushed into nothingness. His foe had just narrowly avoided being caught by Solon’s spell. He grit his teeth, readying another spell, but another dagger was in flight. He had but an instant to judge the situation, and he made his choice.

The dagger struck him in the arm, and Solon fought against the pain while still he launched _Banshee_ toward his foe. He narrowly dodged the spell, then kicked off from a bookshelf, landing on a table in a crouch. He leapt, his dagger held in a reverse-grip, arm raised high. Solon watched as his arm followed his entire body in its descent, plunging down toward Solon. Hurriedly, he conjured his shield once more, reshaping the motes of Dark Magic that he had been preparing for a second cast of _Death_.

The Crest of Flames manifested. There was a thundering _crack_, splinters forming from the metaphysical shield as the structure created from organised motes of magic crumbled and collapsed, but it still wasn’t enough. Solon had been able to strengthen his shield where it had been crushed, launching his foe aside as his shield hurriedly reformed. Byleth spun in mid-air, landing on another table, ready to kick off again in a second strike.

His magic was tiring from the effort needed to defend against the power of the Crest of Flames. Perhaps he had miscalculated. This Beast was certainly no simple foe. This enemy wouldn’t normally have been a challenge to Solon, but he had the power of the Crest of Flames with him. A retreat was in order.

“Fell Star,” Solon snarled. His hands were raised in front of him, the magics of his shield reorganising as he willed the sigils to shift between different spells, altering their form as he carefully studied Byleth’s actions. Only a few more spells left, before his spellcasting would be severely limited. He would just need a moment to teleport back to Thales’ side. He measured his foe’s reactions, finding a spell that would best suit his purposes.

“Where is Flayn?” he spat. How droll. Had the Beast already enforced her corruption over her vessel?

“She will soon be buried with the rest of her kind,” he said, distracting his foe while he poured magic into the device crafted from the technology of their people. Just a few moments longer…

The Beast grabbed yet another dagger – just how many did he have?! – dashing toward Solon. No! He needed more time! He tried to step away, looking around for a way out of this. Perhaps some clutter to block his path, or maybe he could bring the ceiling down upon him. He wouldn’t allow himself to fall to the Beast. His enemy was mid-way toward him now, a few more moments and he would -

“Huh?” Solon turned at the unexpected sound. He saw a student, a library regular he had seen so often researching _Crests_ in his time of Solon. He had tried so hard to open his eyes to the truth, deliberately leaving _Agarthan_ books describing the True Form of the Beast, but still he had never made the connection.

He would have been a worthwhile addition to their team, had he not been so blinded to the truth. Regardless, he now proved a suitable means for Solon’s escape. He temporarily halted the flow of magic to the teleportation device, funnelling it into a glyph of _Dark Spikes_, forming and completing the spell as quickly as he could toward the student.

He smiled as he saw the grim realisation on Byleth’s face. He shifted his magic back toward the device, while his opponent changed the direction of his charge, moving to tackle the student away from his spell. _Dark Spikes_ struck against the bookshelf just behind, ruining ancient tomes that had been part of the library’s extensive collection. He watched as his foe attempted to strike once more, dashing toward Solon, but now the device was ready.

“Know despair.” He offered some parting words, as the world shifted around him. A burst of light later, and he was once more in Shambhala.

-o-o-o-

He had been _so close_.

He had Solon dead to rights. He saw how the shield had been failing. One more strike empowered by the Crest of Flames, and he wouldn’t have been able to maintain his spellcasting any longer. He had been so close to ripping answers from Solon’s flesh, to forcing him to yield all information he had about their plans and of Flayn.

Then _Linhardt_ had unexpectedly appeared from a corner of the library, still yawning and stretching as he strode into the periphery of their fight. He had been forced to make a choice, and now that the battle was over he was wondering whether it was the right one.

He could have let Linhardt die, but he would have known where Flayn was. He could have tortured Solon until he gave up _everything_ he had on the Agarthans. He could have _won_.

But then Linhardt would have died.

“Byleth?” Linhardt asked uncertainly from his side. “What’s going on?”

_Flayn. _He needed to find Flayn.

‘_Her blood will run_’, the mage in Fhirdiad had said. ‘_She will soon be buried’_, Solon had claimed.

_Will._ That implied that she wasn’t dead yet. There was still hope.

Seteth came barging into the library, still breathing heavily as he tried to catch up with Byleth from the speed he had been running. “Byleth!” he shouted, losing his characteristic calm. He inhaled deeply a few times, looking wide-eyed at the destruction of the library. “What – these are priceless books – what _happened_?!”

Damn. There was far too much that he couldn’t just _explain_, not while Flayn’s life hung in the balance. “Tomas kidnapped Flayn,” he growled, moving to pick up his daggers where they’d been flung. “He’s in league with Jeritza.”

“What – _Tomas?” _Seteth sounded disbelieving, still clearly out of sorts, looking between Linhardt and himself. “Are you _sure_?”

He didn’t have time for this. He needed to _think_, all the while ignoring how his heart ached and burned at the thought of Flayn dying from his actions.

“The man looked a little like Tomas, but his face was disfigured and twisted,” Linhardt reported to Seteth, seeing that Byleth wasn’t about to respond. “Byleth engaged him in combat.”

“Byleth, please!” Seteth impeached. “Communicate with us. What is going on?”

He took a deep breath in, then exhaled. “Flayn’s gone. Solon said that she will soon be buried with the rest of her kind.”

“No. That can’t be…” Seteth staggered, face turning pale. “Are you _certain?_”

“I heard him say that as well,” Linhardt confirmed. “I was taking a nap when I was disturbed by the sound of fighting…”

Byleth tuned out their conversation. He couldn’t allow himself to be clouded by rage, guilt or doubt. Flayn was still alive. He needed to _think_.

In past lives, Flayn had been left alive when she’d been kidnapped. He didn’t quite ever figure out just what she was being used for, but given what he knew of Agarthans and of the Children of the Goddess he suspected they were running blood experiments on her. They had to keep her in Jeritza’s dungeon, rather than simply teleporting her away. That probably implied that they _couldn’t_, a limitation of the teleportation method that they used.

That was good. It had only been just more than a day since he’d last seen her prior to making his way to Fhirdiad. She couldn’t have gone far. She must still be somewhere in the vicinity of the Monastery. What possibilities were there? Magdred, Charon, Airmid, Varley, the Gronder Fields, Bergliez, the Oghma Mountain Range were all certainly within a reasonable distance.

This life, they seemed certain that she would die. But why? How had his interference changed any of that?

They knew of him, and of his Crest. From how Solon spoke, they suspected as though _he_ were Sothis herself, or at the very least communicating with Sothis. He must have forced their hand, making them utilise Flayn in a way they hadn’t before. They were certain of her _death_.

They’d done similar in the past. He had seen the massacre at Zanado many times over prior to his reawakening in Remire Village. They had killed off the Children of the Goddess that had forced them into hiding. They possessed a level of technology unmatched in the millennia since they challenged the Goddess and her people. They had unparalleled knowledge of Crests, the power of blood sacrifices and experiments related to them.

If they were going to kill Flayn, then –

“They’re after her Crest,” he reasoned out loud, interrupting the furious discussion between the pair. “They want her blood.”

“What?” Seteth whirled onto him, an expression of horror on his face. No doubt he was thinking of the brethren that had been slaughtered eons ago, butchered and taken apart to forge Crest Stones and Relics as they were denied even peaceful deaths. He could only imagine how it would feel like for Seteth to have to live through his own _daughter_ going through that.

He wasn’t supposed to know just how Crests truly came about, but that scarcely mattered right now. He had a shot of saving Flayn, if he just knew _where_ she was. Byleth thought furiously, looking for any clue that the Agarthans may have unknowingly revealed.

_You’ll fail, you know. _ _The Beast will join the rest of her kind._

_Know despair, Byleth Eisner. _ _Her blood will run along with the rest of her filthy kind._

_She will soon be buried with the rest of her kind. Know despair._

They couldn’t have teleported her. She couldn’t have gone far. They intended to kill her, that she would join the rest of her kind. They would take her heart to form Crest Stones and use her bones to craft Relics. They would use her blood to create Demonic Beasts.

They would repeat what they had done eons ago. The remaining Children would know _despair,_ because they had felt it before, back where rocky canyons ran red with the blood of the fallen, where the crimson had lingered throughout eons in the stones till this day.

There was a kind of macabre poetry in it. The Agarthans would see to the beginning of the end of the Beasts that had destroyed their civilisation where they had almost succeeded the first time, a thousand years ago.

“Zanado,” he spoke, a newfound determination in his mind. He fought down the uncertainty he had over whether he made the right deduction. He wouldn’t fail his student. “Flayn’s in Zanado.”

-o-o-o-

Byleth was running quickly toward the Knight’s Hall, slowing down just enough for Seteth and Linhardt to keep up with him. He barely offered any words of explanation following his proclamation that Flayn was in Zanado, and Seteth felt as though he had a million questions rushing through his mind.

“Byleth!” Seteth urged as he kept pace with him. “Please, you need to explain yourself!”

Byleth made no move to explain, rummaging through the racks of equipment of the Knight’s hall, picking out some weaponry for himself. He carried out a few experimental swings of a silver axe and sword. Seteth did likewise despite not knowing just _what _going on, grabbing a silver lance that would complement the Blessed Lance he always kept by his side.

“Just trust me,” Byleth said, looking around the crates that littered the hall. “Where are the other students?”

“The Deer and the Lions are off on their missions,” Seteth replied despite his misgivings. Byleth seemed to be certain that his dear Flayn – his dear _Cethleann_ – was in Zanado, which was more than Seteth had heard over the past hours since she’d gone missing. “Only the Eagles remain in the Monastery.”

Byleth turned toward Linhardt. “Where are they?”

He started momentarily. “Petra’s out hunting, some have gone into the nearby town, and I’m not certain about the rest. I was invited to join them, of course, but I found the most fascinating book on Crests. Then, I took a short nap and –“

“Not important,” Byleth said hurriedly, equipment ready by his side. “It’s just you, then.”

“Me, Byleth?” Linhardt sounded uncertain. “I’m not sure I –“

“Flayn’s going to _die_ if we don’t do anything,” he snapped. Seteth involuntarily stiffened once more. No. She couldn’t be dead. She just _couldn’t._ “We need all the backup we can get.”

Linhardt’s posture straightened, and he nodded at Byleth. “You can count on me.”

“It’s just the three of us. We can’t afford to waste more time rallying the rest,” Byleth decided, checking to make sure Seteth was armed, before they left the Knight's Hall. “We’ll go to the aviary and fly over to Zanado.”

“I can’t fly,” Linhardt said slowly.

“We’ll ride on one Wyvern. Seteth, you take another.” He had no idea that Byleth could fly. Something he had picked up along with those dreams he had been having, perhaps? Regardless, this was hardly the time to question Byleth. He sounded confident, and the situation was far too dire to ask such trivial questions.

“Zanado’s less than an hour by flight,” Byleth continued speaking as they moved. “We’ll be going full speed the entire time. Once we’re there, be ready for anything. There’s no telling what they have planned for us.”

“Please, Byleth, I still do not understand,” Seteth pleaded. “How are you so certain she will be there?”

The whirlwind of emotions he’d felt over the past hour had left him disoriented. He had gone from noticing Flayn’s disappearance, suspecting a kidnapping, to having a kidnapping confirmed by Byleth, right before he stormed toward the library. When Seteth arrived, the library had been ruined, books destroyed and charred in the aftermath of a battle against _Tomas_, of all people, who turned out to be allied with those that had stolen the Sword of the Creator. Then he’d been told that his daughter might be dead, butchered in the same way so many of his kind had been, without any explanation as to who these enemies were or why they were targeting Flayn.

Deep down, he had a growing suspicion. Taking Flayn to Zanado was hardly a coincidence. Byleth claimed they wanted her Crest and blood. Had their old enemies returned? Would they be bringing their horrors to Fódlan once more?

And to what end? Revenge against their kind? Subjugation of all of Fódlan? Some other nefarious purpose?

He had survived the massacre, but still he remembered just how his people had been slaughtered to the last by Nemesis and his ilk. He still heard their blood-curdling screams, how they had been denied the mercy of death as their hearts and bones were carved out from still-living bodies. For Flayn to have to go through that…

No. He couldn’t let that happen. He would sooner die.

“I’ll explain later, but we need to move _now_!” Byleth sprinted ahead, throwing open the massive doors in front of them.

They were at the aviary now. He quickly mounted his favoured Wyvern, straddling the saddle on his back. Byleth was doing the same, helping Linhardt atop their Wyvern as the younger boy looked uneasily at the massive creature. There was no denying that Byleth had a connection with and knew how to ride the draconic beast, seeing as how he’d effortlessly scaled up the side of the creature’s legs onto its back without it snapping its mighty jaws toward him. That kind of experience was something he’d learned over eons after he’d lost the ability to transform as Rhea and the rest of their kind did.

The two Wyverns uncurled their massive wings. They gave a massive roar, and with heavy wingbeats, they took off into the air, heading toward the Oghma Mountain Range.

“Byleth, please. Can you explain now?” Seteth asked, the wind roaring against his ears.

He looked at the riders on the other Wyvern. Linhardt was grabbing tightly on Byleth’s shoulders, clearly unused to flight. The speed and altitude they were going were hardly welcoming to any beginner of the art. Byleth was entirely at ease, steering the Wyvern with one hand, guiding it to follow the drift of the wind as they raced toward the distant mountains.

“Tomas is a mage called Solon,” Byleth shouted back. “He and the Death Knight are allies. He recognised me, and attacked the moment that I entered the library.”

That didn’t add up. Byleth had known that Tomas – Solon – was involved in Flayn’s kidnapping before he had even made it to the library.

“You knew that he was involved in Flayn’s disappearance,” he made his doubts known. “How?”

Byleth didn’t reply immediately, moving his mount just slightly off-course to catch the wind. Seteth copied him. “I had suspicions,” he spoke, voice barely audible against the rushing wind. “He was always eyeing Flayn, and both he and Jeritza didn’t interact with anyone.”

That sounded like it could be true, but Seteth still had doubts. There was more that Byleth wasn’t revealing. Seteth considered the possibility that this was a trap for _him_, that Byleth was leading him to join Flayn in death.

Had he not seen how Byleth had reacted when Seteth begged for his assistance, he might have believed that. But Byleth had instead rushed directly toward the library, fought against Tomas, and was almost certain that he uncovered the location that Flayn had been brought to. He had seen how angry Byleth had become. That kind of primal emotion wasn’t something that could simply be faked. Byleth was hiding information, but he was on _their_ side. For now, he would let him keep his secrets, until they rescued Flayn.

He refused to entertain the thought that they might be too late. Cethleann had to be alive. He had already lost his wife. It had been just the two of them for centuries. His life would be meaningless without his dearest daughter.

-o-o-o-

Zanado grew in the distance as they approached. Byleth strained his eyes, looking out for any disturbance in the mountain range he had seen so many times before.

He didn’t need to look far. The _sounds_ reached him first. They heard monstrous roars echoing throughout the mountain range, and he steered his Wyvern toward their origin.

“By the Goddess…” he heard Seteth whisper when they finally caught sight of the source. There was a monstrous winged White Beast, the sound of its thundering footsteps and deafening roar hardly dampened by distance even up in the air where they were still approaching the group.

He had seen similar creatures before, only this was far larger. In past lives, many a weakened Rhea had lost control of the power that ran in their blood, transforming the Knights she had gifted the power of her blood to into White Beasts that looked so much like Rhea in her form as the Immaculate One, only smaller. This creature was an intermediate of the two, larger than the transformed knights, but still smaller than Rhea’s true form.

By the side of the creature was a group of hooded mages standing in a circle. In the very centre lay a downed body, her dark green hair unmistakeable.

_Flayn._

“FLAYN!” Seteth yelled, his Wyvern rushing past Byleth’s own.

Byleth cursed, urging his mount to move faster, as he watched Seteth deftly commandeer his Wyvern to avoid the fireballs and bursts of lightning originating from the mages. He drew closer, lance held out in front of him, and the mages scattered in panic. He hovered low to the ground, hand outstretched to grab Flayn’s body, when suddenly the White Beast burst into flight, its claws slashing at the scales that adorned Seteth’s Wyvern.

“Seteth!” Byleth shouted.

“Get Flayn!” he returned, his mount thrashing in the air while he jabbed his own lance toward the White Beast.

Byleth took out his bow, aiming several shots at the mages, careful to avoid accidentally striking at Flayn. Linhardt sent his own spells at fleeing targets, _Cutting Gale _leaving gashes in the earth and crimson streaks across bodies where it hit into the canyon below. A few of them fell to his arrows, falling silent as they lay unmoving on the rocky canyon. The mages were beginning to disperse now, teleporting in bursts of purple light, leaving Flayn’s body where she lay.

He replaced his bow, stretching out his hand as he focused on Flayn’s form. He tried to cast a _Physic, _the glyph forming in the air, as the spell built a connection between himself and her. The glyph glowed a bright white, motes of White Magic travelling toward her.

She didn’t even stir. The magic hung lazily around her, unable to exert any effect in closing any wounds she may have.

“Linhardt, watch over her,” he commanded.

He waited just long enough for him to quickly undo himself from the saddle, sliding off the side of the Wyvern, and then he took flight once more.

Logically, he knew what the failure of his spell meant, but he refused to accept it.

He turned toward the White Beast, its claws still slashing furiously at Seteth and his mount as they struggled in mid-air. Furious rage burned in Byleth’s veins, and he sent his mount charging toward the creature. His Wyvern tackled against the larger beast, freeing Seteth from its grasp as he and his mount flew some distance away, before making a wide turn and approaching the beast once more.

“Byleth!” Seteth shouted, the loudness of his voice increasing in amplitude as he drew closer. “Is Flayn –“

“Focus!” he urged. _Byleth_ didn’t want to think about Flayn right now. He didn’t want to think about his failure. All that mattered was this beast’s death.

It turned its attention toward Byleth and his mount, but now he was ready. They tumbled in mid-air as it swiped at them, then turned once more into a straight climb above the beast. He took aim, his eyes unblinking even as it watered in the rushing wind, tracking its trajectory as it stopped in mid-air to chase its quarry.

_Now._

He unleashed an _Agnea’s Arrow_, the magical projectile impacting hard against the Beast at it approached from a direct vertical ascent. Its momentum was halted, and his Wyvern dived down toward it. He carefully released himself from the saddle, one hand holding on his axe while his other held on the Wyvern’s reins, timing his next move carefully.

When the two beasts were almost level with each other, he leapt off his mount, axe raised high, shouting a battle cry as he descended on the White Beast. It tried to dodge, but Byleth had timed his attack perfectly.

The axe buried itself deep in the flesh of the creature’s forehead, adjacent to the cracked fragment of a Crest Stone that gave it its power. Its jaws snapped at him, but he pivoted on the axe, the only thing keeping him connected to the creature. He flipped over to lie on the back of its head, grabbing under its scales with one hand, all while the creature continued twisting and turning in mid-air in an attempt to throw him off its back.

When at last he was secure, he pulled hard on the axe, slimy ichor dripping off where it had been embedded. The beast gave another ungodly scream, but Byleth didn’t let up. He brought his axe down, _hard_, the Crest of Flames manifesting as it broke its way through scales into its fleshy back with another explosive release of its lifeblood. Then, he raised his axe, and brought it down again.

And again.

And again.

He didn’t know how long he hacked at the creature. He didn’t even register the fact that it was tumbling from the air, crashing down into the canyon below. He didn’t care that it had stopped moving, that the only thing keeping it going was _gravity_.

It was only when they finally impacted the rocks below that Byleth moved. He was thrown hard off from the beast, tumbling several times as the axe was forced out of his grip, barely finding purchase against the rocks before he would have been sent into a sharp descent off the cliff. He breathed heavily, his hands thick with the creature’s blood, as it lay unmoving.

His arms were numb. His legs were shaking. There were abrasions from where he’d scraped across the rocky ground after his landing.

They didn’t matter. He looked back where he came from, searching for Seteth and Linhardt.

His heart plummeted.

Seteth was kneeling on the ground, cradling Flayn with his head buried against her form, equally unmoving as the body in his arms. Linhardt was standing respectfully some distance away, the line of his gaze transfixed on the pair. Torpidly, numbly, he made his way over to them.

Flayn couldn’t be dead. She _couldn’t_.

“Byleth,” Linhardt said quietly as he approached.

“Is she –“ his words died in his mouth. Linhardt nodded, his eyes hard.

Seteth still didn’t move. Byleth tried casting another _Physic_, but the results remained unchanging. He cast another one anyway, and then again, until he was completely spent of White Magic.

“No,” he breathed. Flayn remained motionless. Her body was practically unmarred, aside from a cut across her palm that stained the ground below a dark red where it lung limply from the side. Her blood still dripped, joining those of her kin from the massacre a millennium ago.

It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t be dead, and that wasn’t just because of his adamant refusal to accept the situation. It was but a _cut_, and he’d seen Flayn take worse injuries many times over before. She couldn’t have died from something like this.

“Byleth,” Seteth spoke, finally lifting his head from Flayn’s body, but with eyes that were still fixed only on his fallen daughter. His voice was hollow, his eyes red, emotions fully on display as he did every time he had seen Flayn die in past lives. Tears flowed freely, dripping onto Flayn’s already-damp clothes below. “She’s not breathing.”

No. Something still wasn’t right. He had to think –

“Her heart isn’t beating,” Seteth continued in the same empty tone. “She’s…”

The word hung in the air. It didn’t need to be said. Still, Byleth refused to acknowledge the fact. His own heart didn’t beat, but that hardly meant –

_His heart didn’t beat. Flayn’s heart isn’t beating. _

The Agarthans used Flayn for her blood. The cut in her palm was proof of that. The White Beast, so similar to the ones transformed from Knights that bore Rhea’s gift, was part of the Agarthans' machinations. It had only been for the barest of instants while he was in the air, but when he brought the silver axe down on its forehead he had caught a glimpse of the Crest Stone shard.

It bore part of the Crest of Cethleann. Flayn’s Crest.

Flayn’s _heart._

Flayn’s body was unblemished aside from the cut in her arm. Had they found a way to draw the power within her heart without physically removing it? He knew that their experiments on Lysithea and Edelgard had empowered them with Crests without physically implanting a Crest Stone within them, unlike how Byleth had obtained his own Crest of Flames.

Could it be that they could also _remove _a Crest?

And could he find a way to reintroduce one?

The shard that was implanted in the White Beast’s forehead was cracked and chipped, an incomplete fragment of her Crest. But perhaps –

“Linhardt,” he said, his voice sounding strangely hollow even to himself. The air was still, but everything around him sounded so _deafening_, a mix of hope and despair warring within him. “I need you to heal her.”

“Byleth,” he spoke slowly, as though to a child. “You’ve already tried that. I hate to say it, but she’s –“

“Just try!” his head snapped toward him, his vision blurry. He had to try, no matter how unlikely success may be. He couldn’t give up. Flayn wasn’t meant to die like this. _No one_ was meant to die like this.

“Byleth…”

“Please,” Byleth almost begged, desperately hoping that it would work. “Please.”

Linhardt looked at him doubtfully, but knelt on the other side of Flayn’s body. Seteth didn’t react as he neared, tears still falling onto her body. He raised his hands in front of him, a familiar glyph taking shape. The sigils arranged themselves into the defined matrix of _Heal_, there was a flash of white light, and –

The spell didn’t collapse, sigils rotating rapidly from the magic that Linhardt was pouring into his spell. Seteth snapped to look at Linhardt hopefully. _Please,_ Byleth begged. _Let this work, Sothis._

The glow strengthened, and Linhardt grunted from the effort. The light intensified, and in the middle of the glyph Linhardt’s crest manifested.

The Minor Crest of _Cethleann_.

It was almost blinding now. With a final burst of light, and a heavy gasp from Linhardt, the spell ended with a thundering crash that temporarily left Byleth blinded and deafened.

When at last his vision cleared, he gasped. Linhardt was supporting himself with his hands placed off to his side, staring at Flayn’s body. Seteth was doing likewise, his eyes wide, the despair and hope he’d experienced in the last few minutes transformed into awe.

Flayn’s body was glowing lightly, and just slightly to left of the the midline of her chest where her heart would be, the symbol that marked the Crest of Cethleann hovered in the air with a bright orange glow. Its brilliance remained for several more moments, and Byleth watched in wonder as it lowered itself into Flayn’s body, as though branding itself into her heart.

Her body stirred, and she gasped, eyes opening faintly. Byleth felt a surge of an unfamiliar emotion as he took in the scene.

“Father?” her weak voice cut through the silence, the three spectators to the wondrous scene left speechless.

“I’m here, Flayn,” Seteth weeped, cradling her body. “I’m here.”

“You’re crying…” her voice trailed off. “Silly…”

She didn’t speak any further. Her head was nestled against Seteth’s chest, her chest rising and falling slowly.

Seteth wept openly. “Thank you,” he said to Linhardt, the boy now slumping over on the ground, exhausted in the wake of the miraculous feat he had just performed. “Thank you.”

“I’m so tired,” Linhardt yawned, staggering over to the side as he sat. “I think… I’ll just take a little… nap…”

Byleth made his way closer to the pair, placing Linhardt into a slightly more comfortable position. The boy had a wide smile on his face, the same one he bore every time he made a new revelation in his pursuit of uncovering the mystery of Crests. Like Flayn, his chest rose and fell slowly, and Byleth took several more moments to confirm that he was fast asleep.

He deserved this rest. He had just done the impossible.

Byleth turned to look back at Seteth. He was caressing the back of her head lovingly, her head placed against his shoulder, looking as though he couldn’t believe that Flayn was still by his side, alive and well.

He just watched the pair as Seteth continued displaying his affection for his daughter. _This_ was what Byleth fought for all his lives. This is what he would continue fighting for. A chance for everyone to live, that all of his students and friends may have a resolution like this once the war was over. It didn’t matter how many more lives it would take to achieve that, so long as each and every one got the happy ending that they so deserved.

It was a long while before Seteth finally spoke. “You know,” he said, finally turning away from Flayn. His tears had dried, the despair he had felt had passed, and now he was looking at Byleth with a steely determination.

“About what?” he pretended to ask.

“I believe you know what I am referring to.” His attention was now fully focused on Byleth, and he knew he had much to explain about.

Far too many things didn’t add up from the time that he began his mad dash toward the library. He considered lying further, but he knew that Seteth could keep a secret. Everything he did was for Flayn. Even if it came down to choosing between his loyalty to Rhea and his love for Flayn, as things had progressed back when he had sided with Edelgard in assaulting Garreg Mach, he had chosen to leave Fódlan and Rhea behind so long as it meant that he would be with Flayn. As long as the information didn’t put her at risk, Seteth could probably be trusted.

Everything that happened this life had been _his _fault. Lonato died right after reconciliation with Ashe because of him. The Death Knight attacked Jeralt and his students in the Mausoleum because _he_ made the choice to become a squire. The Agarthans changed their plans because _he_ had revealed knowledge he shouldn’t have and the power of Sothis that he wielded.

It had been his students and friends that righted his mistakes. Ashe had stayed his hand when he had been about to kill Lonato, saving the lives of the commonfolk he had led in his rebellion. Leonie and Alois had been the ones to bring reinforcements that drove the Death Knight away. And now, it was Linhardt’s Crest that had turned around what would certainly be the death of one of his beloved students.

Byleth had tried to carry this burden alone, thinking that his students were not _ready_, but they had been the ones to correct every mistake he made the entire time. He didn’t need to wait until the war for them to help. Each of them already possessed strength as they were. He could stand to trust in them.

He would start with Seteth.

“I do,” Byleth agreed, meeting his gaze levelly with his own. “Cichol.”

His eyes widened, then he snapped to look toward Linhardt. “He’s asleep,” Byleth assured him. “I checked.”

“How?” he whispered.

How indeed? Claude had certainly shared some of his suspicions in one of his first lives, pointing out facts that seemed too far-fetched to be mere coincidences. A sibling pair bearing Major Crests of the Saints? Their birthdays coinciding precisely with the days of Saint Cichol and Saint Cethleann? The hair that so resembled Sothis and Rhea?

They had confirmed the fact for him in a much later life, of course, when he aligned with the Church against Edelgard, and later the Agarthans.

“Your birthdays,” he admitted. “Your Crests. Your relationship with the Church. But there’s also more.”

He steeled himself, then spoke. “The dreams that I’ve had? I haven’t told you and Rhea everything. I will reveal some of it to you, but you need to promise not to tell Rhea about any of it.”

Seteth’s expression became guarded. “What is it?”

“It won’t harm Rhea,” he reassured him. “But Rhea… she won’t be able to see me objectively if she learns of this. Please, promise me.”

Seteth closed his eyes momentarily, a furrow line in his brow. “You saved Flayn,” he spoke.

_No. I almost killed her._

“I owe you a debt for that. I will consider what you have to say,” Seteth said. “But know that if anything threatens Rhea or Flayn, I will have no choice but to inform her of such.”

He could accept that. He held Seteth’s attention, and so Byleth continued. “The dreams I spoke about? That wasn’t all. I also dream of Sothis.”

“The Goddess?” he gasped. “You –“

“You mean your _mother_,_” _Byleth interrupted. Seteth started, looking again toward Linhardt, and then back toward Byleth. “Yes, Seteth. I know about you, Flayn and Rhea. I know about the Four Saints. I know about Zanado, Nemesis, the Ten Elites, and what happened to the Children of the Goddess. I know about Crests. I know about Agartha.”

“How?” he breathed.

“Rhea…” Byleth considered his words. “She implanted Sothis’ heart in me when I was born.”

“What?!” Seteth exclaimed. “_Rhea_ did?”

“She did, and I know I’m not the first. The rest died,” he continued, hiding truths among his lies. “I’ve had dreams since then. I’ve seen things, Seteth. I see Rhea fighting Nemesis, I see the slaughter at Zanado, and I’ve _seen_ Sothis.”

“You have seen the Goddess?”

“She’s disappeared.” _Things would be so much easier if Sothis were still around. _“But I know that a storm is coming, Seteth. The Agarthans plot their revenge, and they won’t stop with just the Church. They want all of Fódlan.”

_Nemesis’ army destroying Goneril, Gloucester and Myrddin as they advanced toward Garreg Mach. Arianrhod and Fort Merceus destroyed. Masked mages scavenging bodies amidst the chaos of war, as three armies clashed in the Gronder Fields._

“You are certain?” Seteth’s eyes were alert, hanging onto his every word.

“I am,” he said, nodding. “Solon and the Death Knight are part of their group. It’s why I chose to become Alois’ squire. I need to fight against them. Sothis gifted me her power for a reason.”

He brought forth the Crest of Flames, emphasising his point. Seteth observed it closely.

“You can manifest it at will?” he asked. “You mentioned that you could not back in the infirmary.”

“What do you think Rhea would do if she finds out?” Byleth rubbed his eyes tiredly. Seteth stiffened. “She wants her mother revived. I don’t think I can do that. If she learns that I’m just another one of her _failures_, I think she would rip Sothis' heart out of my chest herself.”

She had tried that, of course, back when he thought the purpose of the loop was to topple the Church alongside Edelgard when nothing else had worked. It hadn’t stopped Sothis from returning him back to Remire Village immediately after.

“Rhea…” Seteth said softly, thinking hard over his words. “I know she distrusts humans, but to go to such depths…”

“Please, Seteth,” Byleth implored.

For several moments, Seteth made no move to reply. He sighed tiredly. “Even though it pains me, I shall agree to keep it a secret from Rhea. You have my word, Byleth.”

“Thank you,” he said. He meant it. Rhea’s involvement in his personal matter would make things far too complicated.

“If what you say is true, and our old enemies will once more be returning,” Seteth spoke. “Then we will need to make preparations of our own.”

“I’ve been working on training the students. They will be ready when the time comes.”

“I am not just referring to the students,” Seteth said. “We can mobilise our knights as well. We must inform the Empire, the Kingdom and the Alliance of it. We can -

“We _can’t_,” Byleth corrected. “They have eyes and ears everywhere, Seteth. Even I don’t know who and where they are. They infiltrated the Monastery as Tomas and Jeritza. You won’t know who you can and cannot trust.”

“We will search for Macuil and Indech, then. Surely they would –“

“They have long abandoned their human form. The Wind Caller hates humans with a passion, and he would _never_ cooperate with us. The Immovable may be willing to help, but I don’t see a way of him being able to work together with us in his current form.”

“You know of them as well?” Seteth shook his head. “What do you propose, then?”

“I need to train the students,” he said. He knew just how important they would be during the war. The problem was that he _couldn’t _alert Seteth about it, without revealing Edelgard’s duplicity. Even if he did, Hubert, Randolph and the rest of her underlings and allies would carry on her work in her stead.

“Is there nothing else we can do?”

“Be ready for anything,” he advised. Too many changes had already occurred in this life. The Agarthans had shown they were more than able to adapt their plans. It had already almost cost Flayn her life. “They will want to attack Garreg Mach. Be prepared for that.”

“We will be,” Seteth vowed.

Was there more information he should reveal? Not about time-travelling, certainly, never mind a time _loop_. He couldn’t talk about the upcoming war that would embroil Fódlan. What could Seteth help with?

“Who else knows?” Seteth spoke, breaking him out of his contemplation.

“My father knows a little of it. I haven’t told him all of what I’ve revealed to you. I’m considering it, but –“

“You should,” Seteth interrupted, looking at him imploringly. Byleth looked at him curiously, and he chuckled.

“Have you not yet realised it, Byleth? Jeralt loves you, in much the same way I do my daughter.” He looked fondly at her, still slumbering deeply across his chest. “If you ask something of him, he will do it without question. Of that I have no doubt. Do not make the mistake of carrying your burden alone.”

Byleth couldn’t quite comprehend that, but then again, he was no father. Perhaps he could tell him about the Agarthans as well. Jeralt might be important in defending the Monastery when the time came, after all. Still, there was so much that he _wouldn’t _reveal to anyone, and not just because they wouldn’t believe any of it. No one needed to know about just what he had experienced in the entire time that he’d been in the time loop. This was his burden.

“I will consider it,” he said. Seteth studied him for a moment longer, then nodded.

“Byleth,” Seteth spoke after a moment of hesitation, breaking him out of his contemplation. “I have not thanked you enough for saving Flayn.”

He didn’t deserve it, the same way he didn’t deserve his student’s thanks. Flayn’s kidnapping with more dire consequences than there should have been was entirely his fault, beginning all the way back when he made his initial decision to work with Alois.

The chain of events stemming from that single decision had led to things spiralling out of his control, and now Byleth truly had no lead to follow. Cornelia, Solon and Jeritza had disappeared, and Arundel would no doubt soon follow. All he could do was work with the students.

“I must confess that I had thought you to be withholding information from me, but you have spoken candidly with me. I ask that you forgive me,” Seteth said honestly. He shouldn’t have to ask for it. There was still so _much_ that Byleth hadn’t told anyone. “If there is anything I can do that would be of use, please do not hesitate to ask. I owe you a debt I cannot possibly repay.”

Byleth shook his head. Seteth just didn’t fully understand the circumstances. Byleth should be the one apologising. He didn’t even know that his attempt would have succeeded. He didn’t even know what would happen in the aftermath of this. 

What he knew was that the Agarthans had a way to remove the power of Crests, at least from a Child of the Goddess, without physically removing a heart. He also knew that Linhardt had been able to utilise the power of his own Crest that had been passed down through Cethleann herself in order to restore some of her power. Whether it would now be a Minor Crest like Linhardt’s own, or a Major Crest as she used to have, was still unclear.

But there, too, lay opportunity. If their enemy’s power was based on technology and stolen Crests and Relics, then Byleth would have to make sure that his side understood what they were up against. He might also have the chance to help one of his dearest friends with the problem that had plagued her for most of her life.

“I have a proposition,” he said slowly. Seteth regarded him seriously. “I would like Linhardt and myself to work with you and Flayn, now that he knows some of your secrets. Hanneman too, if you are willing to speak to him about some of your origins.”

“You wish to study our Crests?”

“The Agarthans' greatest advantage is knowing how they to make use of Crests, both directly from Crest Stones and indirectly through blood. They created that White Beast from Flayn’s blood and the power of her Crest,” Byleth reasoned. “I’m going to tell you this in confidence, and I trust that you will not repeat this to anyone. Their blood experiments are responsible for Lysithea’s two Crests.”

“Impossible,” Seteth whispered.

“They are. I believe that Crests are interfering with her magic,” he confirmed. “I intend to help her, but I don’t know where to start. We’ve just seen Flayn have her Crest taken from her, and Linhardt restore it. I don’t know what will happen to her Crest after this. If we understand how all of this works, we may know how to use the Agarthans' greatest advantage against themselves.”

Seteth considered his request carefully. After a long pause, he spoke. “This will not bring Flayn to harm?”

“I would not ask if it did.”

“Very well, then.” Seteth nodded. “I agree to your request.”

“Thank you.” He felt a surge of relief course through him. “Really. It means a lot to me.”

This was probably more progress in researching the nature of Crests than he, Linhardt and Hanneman had managed in past lives. Most of the time, they worked individually, without direction or purpose, but now they had multiple avenues to follow. They could study Crests from their very source, observe Flayn’s Crest for any changes following her miraculous revival, and work with Lysithea and her Crests’ interference with her ability to control Black Magic.

“You and Linhardt saved Flayn,” Seteth said simply. “I cannot repay you enough for that.”

Speaking of Linhardt…

“Linhardt heard Flayn call you ‘father’, you know.”

Seteth sighed. “I will handle it. It is best that he learns a little of the truth, if he will be working with us to study our Crests. You believe he can be trusted?”

Byleth nodded. Linhardt may appear lazy and unmotivated, but Crests were above all his primary interest. He knew how he had kept Lysithea’s and Marianne’s secrets to himself after uncovering them in past lives. He knew how dependable he could be with lives on the line, having fought to the end at Fort Merceus many times over. “I do.”

“Very well,” Seteth concluded. He looked at Flayn once more, before slowly standing up, carrying her sleeping form in his hands. “We should return to the Monastery.”

Byleth carefully supported Linhardt as he snored, placing him on top of the Wyvern they had ridden. He made sure that he was well secured, lying him across his lap for good measure. He turned to look at Seteth, and saw that he had done similarly with Flayn.

Together, two Wyverns flew back toward the Monastery. Despite all that had happened since his failed assassination of Cornelia, and the repeated setbacks he had faced, he felt the weight over his shoulders lighten just a little. Perhaps Seteth had some wisdom there.

Maybe he could afford to trust a little more in his students, and to entrust a few more secrets to Jeralt. For all he had done in this life, it was always his students that had salvaged the mess he made. All they needed was more training. He had already started with Ashe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next few chapters will probably tone down a little, without Byleth messing things up every five paragraphs. Will attempt to build up toward the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, and see just how Byleth's new approach as a neutral party may change things.
> 
> That's the plan, at least. I might run out of BS to write about way before then. Hopefully you'll stick around, but I understand if you drop it after the downward trend this story has taken. Now I just need to find motivation in writing this.


	11. Fluvial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluvial: adj. of, relating to, or living in a stream or river

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hi.  
Been awhile, eh?
> 
> It's been some time since I touched anything remotely related to FE3H, let alone this story. I've also forgotten how to write, after alternating between writing up a thesis proposal and working on a completely different story for a separate fandom, so let me apologise in advance if this chapter sounds like the completely batshit insane ramblings of a madman (more than it usually does, anyway). I'll elaborate more at the end.

Shortly before the Blue Lions and Golden Deer Houses returned from their missions, Byleth had been struck by an excellent idea. 

It was why he was now at the head of a lecture hall, looking at the faces of twenty-four curious students, with his father, Flayn and Seteth also in attendance. Jeralt was sitting over by the back – unsurprisingly Leonie had chosen to sit beside him – while Seteth and Flayn were in a little corner of their own, the deceptively young-looking girl still looking frail after the ordeal she had been through just days prior. 

Word had spread of what had happened, and though he wasn’t normally one to pay attention to gossip the rumours still somehow managed to find their way to him. Most of them were absurd, and he had heard recounts as far-fetched as him bravely fending off Tomas who had intended to seize Flayn for his own nefarious purposes, and then pleading with Seteth for his ‘sister’s’ hand in marriage. 

…there was a scattering of truth in even the boldest of rumours, but he genuinely had no idea where _anyone_ could have come up with such outlandish claims. Had these students truly nothing else better to do? 

He ignored the better part of his brain informed by memories of hundreds of years that _yes_, the vast overwhelming majority of students and staff alike in the monastery had far too much idle time on their hands. 

Jeralt was looking equally curious and concerned at Byleth, and he had a good idea as to why. With the Golden Deer only returning to the Monastery just the day before, he hadn’t yet had time to tell Jeralt the version of events he had informed Seteth of. The plan was for them to sit down following this lecture and discuss the latest developments, his own fabricated personal circumstances that had been told to Seteth, and how to proceed going forward. 

In all honesty, he was feeling apprehensive about his planned revelation to come. Although it was still much easier to accept than the truth of the curse he had found himself in eons ago, he hadn’t resolved to speak with Jeralt about anything even remotely close to the truth in all of his recent past lives. 

Though it was now a distant memory, and he’d long since forgotten everything else that happened in those lives, he distinctly remembered the many conflicted looks of pain, rage and anxiety in his father’s expression in his early lives where he’d tried to gather as many allies as he could if only it meant that he could get some _answers_ as to how to break himself out of the loop. That helplessness only grew when nothing ever managed to work.

The inevitably of his circumstances had led him to stop pursuing that route ever since. There was no need for others to worry for him, when no answers would be forthcoming. This burden was his alone to bear. 

His more recent experiences, however, challenged that line of thought. He needn’t stand alone against the inevitable tide, if he had capable and talented students by his side. His gambit with Linhardt had showed him that. 

After his more recent reflections in the wake of Flayn’s abduction and miraculous revival, he had decided to more seriously train his students to prepare them for the war to come. The glaring problem with his plan was that during his five years of forced absence in virtually every life, his students in past lives had always made use of the skills they had honed during their time in the academy against each other in the inevitable war, which only further crippled Fódlan to be ripe for the Agarthans’ taking. 

The plan he had in mind now was aimed at correcting that. He’d taken inspiration from his tea party with Edelgard a month earlier. At the time, he had put his foreknowledge of her personality to use, and deliberately revealed that he was aware of Hubert’s presence following their conversation. The princess had tried to rein her emotions well, but even he noted the surprise that slipped through the cracks in her armour. 

Truth be told, Hubert _had_ hidden himself fairly well, and even with his many experiences of dealing with assassins, had he not known of Hubert’s tendency to ensure Edelgard’s safety in all situations he might not have been able to discern his eavesdropping. Byleth had since not noticed Hubert tailing him, which he suspected may have been due to Edelgard’s direct orders. It meant that his gamble in deterrence had paid off. 

Edelgard’s pragmatism had stayed her hand in taking active steps to eliminate him as a threat. It was on a completely different scale, but who was to say that he couldn’t attempt to delay her from starting the upcoming war by making sure she knew that her rivals were more than capable of standing up to the might of the Empire? 

_In times of peace, prepare for war. _Even though his attempts at diplomacy in past lives failed, perhaps this gamble might yet succeed. 

He had petitioned to Seteth for him to take up a lecture series given to members of all three houses, breaking the traditional method of tutelage in Garreg Mach that saw the separate development of each house. Though Seteth was a stickler for tradition, it had only taken mere moments for him to agree. Byleth suspected that the recent kidnapping of Flayn thwarted only by sheer _luck_ on his part and the frankly miraculous act that Linhardt had performed was weighing heavily on his mind. 

It probably helped that he felt a debt of gratitude toward Byleth, however undeserved it may be. 

Byleth had, of course, not told Seteth the complete truth regarding _why_ he intended to teach the students. Just because he had divulged some of the circumstances that had plagued him through his many lifetimes veiled amidst half-truths and outright lies, didn’t mean that he was willing to tell Seteth _everything._

He could hardly tell the older man that Edelgard was plotting with their ancient enemies to overthrow the Church, and break the fragile peace that had held over Fódlan, after all. Despite how restrained and cautious Seteth normally was, Byleth knew that he was willing to do anything for Flayn’s sake, probably even going so far as to attack and kill Edelgard outright. 

Removing Edelgard from the equation wasn’t the solution, as he’d learned the hard way in many, _many_ lives long since passed. 

Besides, for all that she had done and _would come_ to do, he didn’t quite want to see one of his dear students killed just like that. It was why he had saved Linhardt’s life back in the library, despite having a chance to obtain information from Solon and kill the Agarthan mage after. Somehow, that paid off, seeing as it resulted in Flayn’s life being saved. 

Instead, he had framed the pitching of his idea in the context of uniting the three houses as a way of preparing them for the upcoming battle against the Agarthans, which strictly speaking wasn’t even completely a lie. His hope that Fódlan wouldn’t tear itself apart from within was primarily aimed at ensuring that the Agarthans couldn’t simply conquer what remained when the bloody war came to an end.

While it was his optimistic hope that teaching them together as he had already done with his group sessions in the training grounds would strengthen inter-house relationships, and in so doing possibly delay the coming omens of war, hundreds of lifetimes had long since rid him of his naivety. He liked to think that he now had a healthy amount of cynicism. 

He eyed the room once more. The students had mostly settled down, waiting for him to begin his hastily arranged lesson. It was a foreign sight, seeing all of his students gathered before him. The only times he had ever seen them truly _together_ outside of the innumerable battlefields they had fought in were during the White Heron Cup and the grand ball that would be held during the Ethereal Moon. 

Some were as they were in lives past. Bernadetta and Ignatz were shying away in their seats, squirming as others attempted to include them in conversation. Raphael was speaking animatedly to Claude, the noble offering his one quips every now and then. 

Annette already had her notebook and quill at the ready, softly humming to herself, Mercedes waiting serenely by her side, while Felix tried his best to look as though he wasn’t secretly enjoying listening to Annete’s ‘singing’. Dedue was the very image of stoicism, sitting by the side of the prince he had sworn to serve. 

Ferdinand was staring at the back of Edelgard’s head – who knew what his competitive spirit had conjured – while the girl in question was waiting patiently for the lesson to commence. For an instant, their eyes met, and as always her expression was unreadable. 

Had her allies informed her of what had transpired? Did she know who he _really_ was? In past lives, even when he had allowed Sothis’ powers to manifest, she never directly opposed him up until her assault on Garreg Mach. Would this be yet another change amidst the many others that had already happened this life? 

And Hubert… 

…well, Hubert was being _Hubert; _ever by Edelgard’s side, peering at Byleth as though attempting to discern the nature of his intentions in conducting this lesson. 

Then there were some students that behaved much more _differently _than he’d remembered, the products of the changes that had been enacted in this life. Whether they were _good_ changes still remained to be seen. 

Lysithea was less bubbly than even her usual stern and uptight self, which was a feat in and of itself. His still-murky conjecture regarding the interactions between her Crests and her ability to use magic had obviously weighed heavily on her. Though she normally paid rapt attention during his classes whenever she had been in his house, at present she seemed as though to be struggling even to remain awake. 

Dimitri simply looked _tired_, and for good reason. His moment of bloodlust and madness as his mind returned to the massacre at Duscur at a time far earlier than usual couldn’t have been good for his mental state. The fact that he had injured Edelgard, his childhood playmate and step-sister likely didn’t help matters. He’d already seen how Felix had behaved more derisively toward the boar-prince in the few sessions at the training grounds that Dimitri had attended following that episode. Dimitri never stayed for long after that. 

Then there was Ashe, and he was a case unto himself. In some ways, he was the Ashe Ubert that Byleth always knew – kind, gentle and considerate to his peers – while in many others the altered version of events with Lonato had changed him greatly. He was more cynical than ever before, with a passion that exceeded even the life where his classmates had nicknamed him _Kyphon. _

Byleth cursed the part of his mind that thought of how his student would be far more valuable in the war to come, despite the toll that the metaphorical whirlwind of reconciling with his father in all but blood shortly before being informed of his gruesome murder would have on the boy. 

Ah, but perhaps he had spent too long a moment inspecting them. Already, some were growing restless, and he had a distinct impression that the small wad of paper that had been shot toward him had originated from a bored Claude. 

To be fair, it wasn’t like he was trying to hide it at all, given how he had promptly stood up and waved as Byleth looked suspiciously toward him. 

Best to move on with it, then. He raised a hand, and the class fell silent. 

“Glad to see all of you once more,” he began saying. He pointedly ignored the simultaneously lazy and enthusiastic applause from Claude. How in all of Fódlan he could manage that was still a mystery to him. “In light of the upcoming Battle of the Eagle and Lion taking place near the end of the Wyvern Moon in two months, I have requested for Seteth to allow me to teach all of you about battlefield tactics.” 

For his planned goal of deterrence and delaying the onset of war, his primary focus was making Edelgard second-guess the plans she had for the upcoming war. In that regard, he had plenty of material to draw from, having been exposed to her particular brand of tactics as part of both the aggressor and defending armies. 

“Haven’t we already been doing that?” Caspar asked, confused. “We’ve worked with each other in the training grounds.” 

Byleth shook his head. “You’ve been working on tactics for _skirmishes_,” he corrected. “When you’re leading entire armies, you will need to employ completely different strategies. What the Black Eagles and Blue Lions did during the mock battle months earlier is an example of that.” 

“What do you mean?” Annette asked curiously, a glint of academic curiosity in her eye. She hadn’t been part of the battle, but more than likely she had weighed in during the Lions’ discussion prior to the mock battle. 

The rest of her House along with the Eagles seemed to be equally interested. He noted the light furrow in Edelgard’s brow and slight inclination of her head, a sign that he’d come to recognise as one of concentration and reflection for her. 

Good. Highlighting the flaws in her strategies may cause her to second-guess herself when the time came that she ascended the throne. Hopefully, it would at least delay the start of war slightly. 

Still, the purpose of this was to highlight the strength of her current peers and future enemies. It wouldn’t do good for _him_ to answer this question. 

“Claude, your thoughts?” he asked instead. 

If he was at all surprised at being called to answer, he schooled his expression quickly, adopting an easy-going demeanour that hid his propensity for devious schemes and brilliant tactics. That same façade had more than once disarmed Edelgard and her forces when she chose to attack Derdriu. Sometimes, the combined forces of the Leicester Alliance and his Almyran allies even managed to deal a devastating defeat to the Empire in a decisive battle, turning the tides of war. 

“Ah, well…” He scratched at his head, as all the attention that had been directed toward Byleth was diverted toward himself. He thought for a moment, before a devilish look came to his eyes, practically gleaming in the split-second that his gaze flickered toward Byleth. 

Byleth had the distinct impression that he was going to regret his decision of allowing him to demonstrate his penchant for strategy. 

“His and Her Highnesses sent half of the Lions and Eagles to engage us back then, right? Little Teach single-handedly took out, who was it again… Ashe, Mercedes, Dorothea and Ferdinand?” He nodded in jest toward Byleth. Byleth again decided it was better to ignore the chorus of groans that _that_ reminder brought. “Three cheers to –“ 

“Please be serious, Claude,” Jeralt interjected from where he sat in the audience, already massaging at his temple. Ah, how nice it was, to have support in dealing with his unpredictable student. 

“Aww, how sweet. Teach is looking out for Little Teach.” He mock-swooned, before finally adopting at least some modicum of seriousness when both Jeralt _and _Byleth glared at him. He’d mastered that particular _look_ after hundreds of lifetimes of dealing with unruly students, while his father had probably picked that up in his time as a knight-captain and mercenary leader. 

“Fine, fine,” Claude acquiesced, turning his body to a position that allowed a view of both Byleth and the class. “Well, in a real battle between armies you need to keep an eye on logistics, right? Troops, supply lines, generals, battle formations, terrain and more; while in the mock battle all we really needed to do was for Little Teach to beat the ever-living crap out of –“ 

“And I’m stopping you right there. Thank you, Claude,” Byleth interrupted, his tone of voice conveying that he was, in fact, _not _thankful. 

Still, Claude gave a mock bow, before sitting down in his seat. He’d at least gotten his message across, based on the look of deep consideration that Edelgard currently held. 

“Claude isn’t wrong. In that battle, the Blue Lions and Black Eagles each lost two of their members before the Golden Deer took any casualties. While a probing force works well in times of war, that failed gambit led to a numbers advantage for the Deer.” He looked over the crowd before him, gauging their reactions. Most had already come to realise what he was getting at. 

Now he had their attention. Time to switch things around. 

“The Battle of the Eagle and Lion will _not_ be a simple skirmish. Unlike the mock battle, victory is not determined just by taking out your fellow students. You will have each have entire battalions of troops to command, and the entirety of the Gronder Fields will be your battleground. To put things in perspective, there will be _thousands _of soldiers on a battlefield a hundred times larger than in the mock battle.”

Some perked up at that, listening with keen interest. Others, such as Ignatz, almost shrivelled at the thought of taking command.

“While personal formidability in combat still plays a big role, more often than not battles between armies are decided outside of the battlefield. Controlling the flow of information, interrupting supply lines, controlling enemies’ movements, using the terrain to your advantage, general troop formations and use of strategic assets play a key role in a battle of that scale. Sabotage, diversions, or honourable combat; nothing is beyond limit.” 

As he spoke, he scribbled down his general points on the board. These weren’t even his original ideas, since they were paraphrased and stolen from past strategies that had been used by all three factions in previous wars. As far as he was concerned, leaking such foreknowledge was fair game, even if it meant that some of their planned strategies for the upcoming Battle of the Eagle and Lion were now moot. If it meant delaying the war, everything would be worth it. 

Besides, now that he thought about it, he quite looked forward to seeing how they would perform in the traditional Battle now that he wasn’t quite here in the capacity of a Professor.

It would be the first time watching all three houses strategise and execute their plans without him personally taking charge over the house he was teaching. Already, he could see Claude eyeing his competition with a growing smirk, and even though Dimitri looked exhausted there was no mistaking the slightest gleam in his eyes that denoted the competitive spirit that had just been ignited within. 

He knew very well how each of them approached clashes between opposing armies, having been part of all their war councils before. Now, he was actively sharing such knowledge with their rivals before they’d even thought of such plans, all under their very noses. 

Had the situation not been so dire and his foreknowledge not earned by the spilling of blood on uncountable battlefields, perhaps he might have been amused at it all.

Edelgard was methodical to a fault, and willing to make any sacrifice if it meant gaining an advantage for her army. More than once, she’d baited opposing forces toward the central platform of the same battleground during the actual war, and then set it ablaze once they drew near. 

He’d had to witness Bernadetta’s growing terror as flames spread across the wooden structure from which she’d been sniping at targets, evidently having not been told of Edelgard’s plans. 

Dimitri favoured a more direct approach. In the times where he was of lucid mind, he chose battles where he could engage an enemy head-on and emerge victorious. Of course, in the early months after his return from forced separation from the events of Fódlan in each life, the king had been reduced to no more than a feral creature, seeking battle wherever it may be found. 

In those cases, it was the assistance of those by his side that took charge of what strategic advantage could be had, even though his personal bloodlust saw him triumphant over many of his foes. 

Claude was the hardest to pin down by far. He was the antithesis to Edelgard’s brand of strategy, adapting as the situation demanded. He tended to switch up his approaches from life to life, and Byleth had picked up many tricks for combat in both small and large scales from the master himself. Poison, ambushes, disguises and unlikely alliances, nothing was above the prodigy at his craft. 

Despite that, he shied away from suffering a loss of _any _kind, even if doing so could mean delivering a crushing defeat to his enemies. His orders in each life were clear – engage the enemy, but retreat the moment things ran south. No matter how much the circumstances of each life and the plans that Claude came up with on the fly changed, that single directive remained constant. 

“Right, then. Any questions at the moment?”

Ashe, surprisingly, raised his hand. Byleth tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“Byleth,” he greeted with a soft smile, although it looked oddly conflicted. “I know that the upcoming Battle won’t be the same as the mock skirmishes we’ve had, but isn’t using underhanded means a bit too much?”

It seemed that several others had the same gnawing thought on their minds. Though Raphael and Caspar beside him were their usual cheery selves, they’d clearly been slightly uncomfortable when he’d mentioned the bitter reality of warfare. Dimitri wasn’t paying as much attention as he’d been accustomed to in past lives, no doubt thinking back to the treachery at Duscur that had killed those he held dear.

He hated himself for having to do this, but peaceful days in the monastery wouldn’t last forever. Edelgard had already demonstrated that she was willing to go beyond what her peers would find acceptable limits, given her attempted assassination of her fellow leaders while in her Flame Emperor guise. He needed to level the playing field, and emphasise to all his students the grim reality that those rising to the stations they would come to hold would need to accept.

It was a gamble, one that could either intensify the flames of war or paradoxically maintain a tenuous peace driven only by mutually assured destruction. Hopefully, Fódlan wouldn’t be destroyed in the five years of his forced inactivity.

“You’re all training to become knights and leaders,” he began saying. He noted how Felix scowled at that, obviously thinking this to be the lead-up to some drivel about how they would become responsible for those under their charge and that sacrifices would be demanded of them.

Fortunately (and unfortunately), this was going to be a very different kind of lesson.

“Make no mistake: As I told Felix months earlier, peace is by far preferable to war. You’ve all already seen battle and put down threats in the form of bandits and monsters, but I hope, for your sakes, that you never have to deal with _war._” He meant that sincerely, but it was still an empty hope. Within the span of a few more months, they would all be dragged into Edelgard’s war one way or another.

“But not everyone sees things that way. Peaceful though Fódlan may be for now, threats that could disturb this unity still lie in the shadows. Your enemies will not hesitate to use any means at their disposal when your paths cross.” He stared pointedly at Petra, Dimitri, Dedue, and then the childhood friends of Glenn Fraldarius in turn. “Some of you will have personally known that.”

Petra narrowed her eyes in seriousness, every bit the Brigid huntress he had come to know. The aftermath of the bloody Dagda and Brigid war against the Empire had left her as a political prisoner in all but name. Meanwhile, the Lions’ faces hardened, and he didn’t miss how Ingrid turned to stare with hatred at Dedue, a reminder of what she’d lost.

He really needed to deal with that soon. He could hardly have the Lions fractured once the war started.

Then, without missing a beat, he gave Edelgard a brief _look_, one that didn’t forthright say that he knew who she was, but implied it nonetheless. He’d tipped his hand to the Agarthans already, and now was the time to move on the offensive and throw them off. There were a million things he could have been referring to with that glance alone, and he knew that _Edelgard_ knew that.

Though she didn’t visibly flinch at that, he saw how her eyes widened. Good.

Edelgard hated uncertainty. Every move she made was carefully calculated, and perhaps toeing the line around her could distract her from concentrating on her ultimate goals. She would question just what his intentions were, whether he suspected her involvement in the Agarthans’ plans, and if so why he wasn’t immediately going against her.

He returned to addressing the class. “Being knights and leaders of Fódlan means doing things outside of your comfort zone. Sometimes, when the situation calls for it, you need to lower yourselves to the level of your foes, because I can assure you that they will spare no such consideration for you.”

And oh boy, did he know that well. While bloodshed was something he was keen to avoid, hundreds of deaths had taught him that nothing was beyond reason during the inevitable war, because there was no metaphorical line to be crossed in the first place. Then there were the many lifetimes where he’d been captured and tortured, by forces of the Empire, Kingdom, Alliance and Agarthans, with and without the input of his former students.

“You’re saying that we should sink to their level?” Ashe questioned challengingly, his face darkening. He had hoped the boy wouldn’t have found out just _how_ Lonato had died, although his reaction told him all that Byleth needed to know.

At least he wasn’t down the path of vengeance so far that the act of taking a life didn’t faze him. Dimitri hardly had the same level of restraint when he succumbed to madness.

“Yes, and no. I’m asking you to consider that not everyone adheres to the same standards you hold yourselves to.” Though his reply was directed at Ashe, he hoped the rest of the class was listening. They couldn’t remain innocent children forever, not if he planned for them to play key roles in stopping the war. “You’ve all already seen how bandits fight. Lord Lonato’s assassination, the attack on the Holy Mausoleum, and more recently Flayn’s kidnapping have shown that there are those who seek to destroy the peace we have.”

Again, he gave a cursory sweep across the students, pausing just fractionally longer over Edelgard. Too fast for anyone else to pick up, but it would throw her off-kilter. He didn’t miss how Seteth’s grip on Flayn’s shoulder tightened, or how Flayn’s still weak body shuddered slightly. The Agarthans hadn’t been kind to the Children of the Goddess, both in eons past and just days earlier.

“Why are you telling us all this?” Edelgard asked, her expression unreadable. “Those events are most unfortunate, but surely there is no reason to think that a war is coming?”

If she was baiting him out to reveal just what he knew, he wasn’t about to fall for it. Instead, he chose to deflect.

“Be that as it may, there will be times when you cannot rely on personal skill alone. Almyra continues to probe at Fódlan’s Throat for any sign of weakness; uprisings can occur at any moment. Battlefield control is very different from the field exercises you have undertaken thus far. You need to be prepared, and the Battle of the Eagle and Lion will be an excellent staging ground. The rules will be different, since killing is _not_ permitted, but the general principles remain the same.”

He paused for any other further questions, and cleared his throat when none appeared to be forthcoming. Time to put his plan into action. He recalled the many battles between the Empire and Kingdom armies on a stormy battlefield, two resolute forces that refused to bow down before their adversary as they advanced through blood-stained soil and mud toward each other.

It probably wasn’t fair to Edelgard that it was mostly _her _future military strategies that were going to be dissected and eviscerated in these lecture series, rather than those of the Alliance and Kingdom, but he had learned just what fates awaited those who played fair eons ago.

“Right, then. Let’s move on with the lesson. First of all, let us consider a hypothetical battle between two armies on the Tailtean Plains…”

-o-o-o-

“Alright, kid. What was that lesson about?” His father cut straight to the point the moment they’d entered Seteth’s quarters following the lecture. “I know for sure that I didn’t teach you those tactics. And why are you telling the kids about all of this _now_? Is this about –”

He held his tongue, cutting himself off mid-speech, unknowing of just what Seteth had been told regarding his present circumstances. Byleth saw how Jeralt eyed Seteth with slight distrust from the corner of his eye. “Why is Seteth here as well?”

There was frustration in his eyes, one that Byleth knew well. Frustration, worry and concern. _Helplessness. _It was the look that had kept Byleth away from revealing to his father everything he knew about the time loop and the events that were fated to befall unto Fódlan over the countless lives he’d lived.

“Flayn isn’t here?” he asked Seteth instead.

“I do not wish to involve her in any of this,” he said in a tone that bode no argument, more than his usual sombre self. “I hope that you can understand my reasoning.”

He thought about how he’d kept so many secrets – _was still keeping_ secrets – away from those he held dear, and suspected that his reasons aligned with Seteth’s.

“Perfectly.”

In that time, Jeralt seemed to catch on with what was being said, his eyes widening as he whirled onto Seteth. “Do you mean to say that –“

Best that he made sure both Jeralt and Seteth were on the same page. Before that, though, he needed to ensure that their discussion remained private.

He held a hand up, forestalling any further questions. Abruptly, the two senior figures of the Church fell silent, and Byleth took several seconds to listen carefully for any sign that they were being eavesdropped upon. He wouldn’t put it past Hubert to creep by, especially after the many deliberate signs he’d left during the lecture that he wasn’t quite who he seemed to be.

Just before the silence grew unbearably long, he lowered his hand, and nodded. “I’ve told him some things about myself, father. Things that I haven’t yet told you about.”

“What?!” Jeralt burst out, equally outraged and uncomprehending. “You mean to say that there are _other_ things that you haven’t informed me about?”

Rather than responding immediately, Byleth exchanged a look with Seteth, nodding slowly at each other.

They were in agreement, then. There would be no turning back from this point.

“I ask that you listen to everything we have to say before making your own judgment, and to keep everything you learn to yourself for now,” Byleth said seriously. “I’ll answer anything that I can after.”

He waited for his father’s agreement. It took barely a moment before it was given; desperation for answers, confusion and concern warring within.

“You may want to sit down for this.”

With that, he began elaborating on his carefully woven tale, truth and lies mixed in equal measure.

He told his father of how he knew who his mother was. He told him about Sothis’ heart and just how his mother had saved his life at the cost of her own, Rhea’s _experiments_ and how he’d seen battles past, present and future, framed in the context of dream-visions. He had seen how Jeralt’s jaw clenched tight at those revelations, but still he continued to listen.

He told Jeralt about the nature of the Goddess, of her Children, and of their ancient enemies. He explained the true version of events that had occurred with Nemesis and the Ten Elites, and the true identities of Seiros and the Four Saints. He didn’t mince words as he spoke of Crests and how the Agarthans had desecrated the bodies of the Children of the Goddess following the massacre at Zanado. He made sure that Jeralt knew just what the Sword of the Creator _was_.

Then, at last, when he’d explained his part, he waited patiently.

“It’s… _unbelievable_,” his father finally said, once rage, incredulity and a dozen other emotions had simmered. “To think that Rhea could have – that she would – that the entire _Church _was founded upon a lie, and that Crests were…”

For the first time, Byleth could honestly say that Jeralt was dumbfounded. In the past, he’d been a lot more restrained, but then again Byleth hadn’t ever made such stupid mistakes that forced the Agarthans’ hand and nearly killed both him _and _his father that early before, had he?

“Byleth – son…” Jeralt said, voice cracking. “I’m _so sorry_…”

_This_ was why he hated telling anyone of his fate. Needless to say, if a minor revelation like this yielded such a response, being told that he’d lived through the same futile cycle hundreds of lifetimes over tended to produce a far greater reaction.

“It doesn’t matter,” he dismissed. “What we need to do now is to plan how to proceed going forward.”

“But –“

“It _really_ doesn’t matter,” he said more forcefully, not looking Jeralt in the eye. “Let’s just focus on our future plans.”

With that, he glanced at Seteth. He took over, explaining his part in all of this mess that had shaped Fódlan’s history. “What young Byleth has failed to mention is my role in all of this. I know that there are a great many things weighing down on you now, Captain – Professor – but I insist that you swear once more that none of what I am about to tell you is to leave this room.”

Jeralt turned his head fractionally toward Byleth, and he understood the unasked question.

“You can trust Seteth,” he assured his father. In all his lives, Seteth had always made his intentions clear both friend and foe alike, sometimes even bordering on brusque and overly direct.

“…Fine, then,” he said after a moment’s pause, carefully scrutinising Seteth’s expression. “I swear.”

Seteth took a deep breath, closing his eyes tightly. Moments later, when they opened once more, they held nothing but unwavering resolve. 

“Very well. While you have already been told of the truth regarding the Four Saints, Byleth has neglected to mention that my true name is Cichol.”

It took a moment to sink in. Jeralt spluttered, and Byleth couldn’t blame him. Seteth certainty didn’t mince words.

“But that would make you –“

“Indeed,” Seteth nodded serenely, as though he hadn’t just unloaded world-changing information unto his father. “I am one of the Children of the Goddess, though as Byleth has mentioned I am unable to assume my natural form.”

“And Flayn?” Jeralt asked sharply.

“Flayn…” Seteth grew uncertain, his eye flickering toward Byleth. He nodded slowly. Seteth inhaled once more, and continued speaking. “Flayn is my _daughter_, Cethleann.

Though he was visibly surprised at the man’s revelation, Jeralt was clearly thinking about everything he’d been told, putting together the scattered facts in a comprehensible manner. Byleth had never interacted that closely with his father in a professional setting during his many lifetimes, since Jeralt was often off on missions for the Church and he’d long since forgotten how he’d conducted himself in his time as a mercenary, but he could now see why the Blade Breaker and the famed mercenary captain had risen to such prominence.

He was compartmentalising, the same way that Byleth had come to master over the long years of war. His mind had to remain clear through the fog of war. Any hesitation meant death on the battlefield, and though death meant little to him given his circumstances he had trained himself to separate Byleth, the idealist from Byleth, the soldier.

“If that’s the case, then…” Jeralt considered aloud, deep in thought, before snapping his head toward the other two people in the room. “Flayn’s kidnapping – that wasn’t a coincidence?”

“_No_.” Seteth growled the word out, his controlled mask breaking at the reminder of his daughter’s death and revival. “No, it was not. They – the _Agarthans – _they sought to…”

Once again, Seteth was lost for words, just as Byleth had witnessed days before upon his return from his failed mission in Fhirdiad. He took over, seeing as grief and rage rendered the normally stoic Seteth tongue-tied.

“Solon – one of their leaders – was disguised as Tomas. He kidnapped her and brought her to Zanado, where they found a way to remove Flayn’s Crest.” Byleth’s own voice shook as once again his mind conjured the vivid image of his student’s lifeless body, Seteth’s anguished cries echoing through the vast empty canyon. “Linhardt managed to bring her back to life, because they share the same Crest.”

Frankly speaking, he still had no idea how that feat was managed. Crests were something so far out of his realm of expertise that he didn’t know where to begin pursuing a line of questioning.

“They removed her _Crest_?”

Byleth nodded. “Crest Stones are derived from the hearts of the Goddess’ Children, and Crests come from their blood. With it, they managed to empower a monstrous White Demonic Beast that we only just managed to destroy.”

“That is most troubling,” Jeralt mused, his brows heavily furrowed. After several more moments of deep thought, he looked toward Byleth. “What else might they be able to do?”

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly, fists clenched. This was uncharted territory even for him. “We have to assume that they still retain the power of Flayn’s Crest, along with the Sword of the Creator. With the remains of the Goddess and the power of the Crest of one of her children in their hands, we have to be ready for everything.”

Seteth nodded in agreement, a forlorn and tired look in his eyes. A potential repeat of the massacre of Zanado and the desecration of his kin that he had personally lived through must have been troubling indeed.

Again, there was silence, each of them pursuing different lines of thought.

“No one else knows of any of this?” Jeralt finally asked.

“Yes,” Byleth confirmed. “And I intend for it to be kept that way. The Agarthans have already demonstrated themselves capable of infiltrating the Monastery.”

It was a shallow lie. He knew most of their identities, at least for their leadership, but there was still a chance for them to don their magical disguises to blend in with the crowds at the Monastery. Besides, the fewer people knew of their plans, the less of a chance there was that the Agarthans could devise ploys of their own.

Goddess forbid Rhea catch wind of what was going on. She would either become overly protective of him, leaving him unable to do what needed to be done, or she would seek to retrieve her mother’s heart by force, if necessary. She had always been difficult to predict, after having spent eons in the guise of Seiros and later Rhea championing stability in Fódlan, all while harbouring resentment for humanity. In his many lives, she had been both his closest ally, and his deadliest enemy.

“Fine,” Jeralt said. “Fine. What do we do now?”

“Seteth and I have discussed matters briefly. For now, we plan to train the students to prepare for a possible confrontation with the Agarthans, while still keeping the truth of the matter between the three of us. My lecture earlier was an example of that. When the time comes, they will be ready.”

“I see,” his father mused. “What else do you have planned?”

“I have made the necessary arrangements for the Knights of Seiros to be recalled at but a moment’s notice,” Seteth said. “Catherine, Gilbert, Shamir and Cyril have been contacted to return to the Monastery. Meanwhile, the rest of the Knights will remain vigilant for any movement of our foes.”

“Students, and the Church,” Jeralt considered aloud. “I suppose I can reach out to some of my mercenary contacts.”

“Can they be trusted?” Byleth asked.

Jeralt snorted. “Don’t forget, kid, you and I were mercenaries.” Funny, Byleth hadn’t thought of himself as one in… well, hundreds of years. “Most are in it only for the coin, but there are a few who will be willing to help, with or without payment.”

It hadn’t been an avenue he pursued before. Normally, when he made any arrangements outside of Garreg Mach, they were groups started by himself, such as the time when he’d single-handedly founded an entire network of assassins and information brokers to influence the political landscape of Fódlan. Needless to say, that venture hadn’t turned out well.

Perhaps Seteth _was_ right in bringing Jeralt into this mess.

Byleth was striking a fine line informing them of relevant information while obscuring the truth of events, but all things considered, things were shaping along well. His students were reasonably well-trained, certainly more than they’d been in his first few lives, and they had engaged in cross-house activities far more than any time he had been directly associated with any one house in particular. At the same time, he was setting events into motion to hopefully delay the onset of war, and equalise the differences in power between each of the three houses, and by extension that of the rival territories of Fódlan they would come to lead.

The question that remained, then, was just where their loyalties would sway toward once Edelgard made her bid for power. Was bloodshed inevitable? Would he awake five years from now, only to find that several of his students had fallen at the hands of their peers? Would he –

“Byleth,” Jeralt interrupted his thoughts. He turned, only to find his father looking at him with sincerity, devoid of the barrier that had existed between them since he could remember. “Thank you for entrusting me with all of this. I won’t let you down, son.”

…Byleth hated that it stung less than it _should _have, given that there were still many more secrets he was hiding from his father. The accursed time loop and his many lives were the foremost examples. Ailell be damned, even what he _had_ revealed were based mostly on well-manufactured lies.

“I trust you too, father,” he half-lied, a very complex set of emotions he couldn’t begin to disentangle warring within. He mustered as much effort as he could to return the warm smile Jeralt had directed toward him, albeit twisted by troubled thoughts in the wake of their latest revelations.

“I _did _tell you that you could trust your father,” Seteth commented, amused for the first time since Flayn’s kidnapping. He looked toward Jeralt. “From one father to another, I can only imagine what you must be going through, Professor. Rest assured that I will do my best to repay the debt I owe to you and your son.”

“There’s really no need for that,” Byleth tried once more. He just didn’t get that none of what happened to Flayn _should_ have happened. “It was nothing.”

“You saved my daughter’s life,” Seteth disagreed. “That is most assuredly _not_ nothing.”

“But –“

“Son,” Jeralt interrupted, a wry smile forming across his own face as he looked between Seteth and Byleth. “From one father to another, _I_ can assure you that you will not convince Seteth otherwise.”

A complicated look was exchanged between the two fathers. Byleth assumed that whatever it was wouldn’t be worth the effort deciphering.

At least the gloomy outlook that had taken hold of their discussion had dissolved somewhat.

Come to think of it, he’d never seen Jeralt and Seteth interact that often in past lives. They did fish together on occasion, but Seteth had never trusted the Captain enough to divulge the truth of his origins.

Byleth knew he was playing a dangerous game. With the students, he was paradoxically providing instruction in the art of warfare in the pursuit of peace, while his relationship with the two mentor figures he had entrusted some of his secrets to was built upon a finely-woven web of lies. He had denied the Agarthans of some of their agents within the Monastery and the Faergus, but at the same time provided them with armaments they had never possessed in his past lives.

At any point, the house of cards he had set up could come crashing down, all while the Agarthans plotted in what was uncharted territory for him. It was exhausting, which was saying something, considering he’d not known rest for quite possibly hundreds of years. He could only hope that his many gambits would pay off.

“I am afraid I must take my leave now; Byleth, Professor,” Seteth said, standing from his chair. “I will need to check up on Flayn.”

“She’s with Linhardt?” Byleth asked. Since she had awoken from her sleep, Linhardt had been curiously finding any chance he could to speak with her with a zeal Byleth had come to recognise stemming from his academic curiosity in Crests, while still giving a respectful space for her recovery.

“Indeed,” Seteth sighed. “He has been asking a great many questions regarding her Crest. It is proving difficult to provide the answers to some of his questions.”

“Will you be telling him about Cethleann and Cichol?” he asked.

He knew Linhardt could keep secrets, since he had chanced upon the truth of Lysithea’s and Marianne’s Crests in past lives even before his students had divulged the same information to Byleth. Still, this was Seteth’s decision to make.

“Eventually,” Seteth said. “I owe the child a debt I cannot possibly repay, but I cannot entrust the safety of my daughter to him just yet. For now, however, I will be observing him carefully.”

Again, the two fathers nodded at each other. Byleth had the distinct feeling that this was something only a parent could comprehend.

With that, the three of them exited Seteth’s quarters. Following a hurried goodbye, the father and son duo stood in the empty hallway, the sound of Seteth’s footsteps quickly fading away in the distance as he rushed down the stairs.

“Byleth,” Jeralt broke the silence. “How about we take some time to catch up?”

“I would like that,” Byleth said automatically.

After a moment of consideration, he realised that he did, in fact, mean what he said.

A wide smile spread across his father’s face, and again he felt that mix of warmth and a twisting in his gut at the relationship that had been rekindled upon layers of lies and veiled half-truths.

“I heard that the monks have refurbished the sauna near the training grounds in our time away,” Jeralt said, leading Byleth through the many corridors of the Monastery. How odd. He hadn’t remembered about there being a sauna in the Monastery, but he hardly paid attention to such mundane matters since many lives ago. “Trust me, kid, if its anything like the one from when I was a Knight, there’s nothing more relaxing.”

Byleth smiled faintly. Jeralt had never been forthcoming with his past life as a Knight-Captain, after all that the Church had taken away from him, but again this life was proving to be different.

“So what happened in Goneril, anyway?” he asked curiously. He hadn’t yet had the time to ask any of his former students, and in past lives that particular mission had never been assigned to his House.

“Please _don’t_ remind me,” Jeralt groaned. “You won’t believe what the brats put me up to during our time in Goneril.”

“Claude von Riegan?” he guessed.

“Claude von Riegan,” Jeralt confirmed. “And if you thought the brat was bad enough, let me just advise you to keep him and Duke Goneril separated if you value your sanity.”

It had been lifetimes since he’d met Holst Goneril in person, but he could empathise heavily with his father. For all that he was renowned for his skill in combat, the famed general had wit and cunning that rivalled Claude’s.

“Sounds like a story.”

Jeralt nodded in resignation. “You bet it is. During our first night at the Goneril estate, he…”

At the end of the day, when he’d finally retired to his own chambers, his mind was awhirl with the mixed uncertainty over a future made more turbid than before, and the sense of contentment that the time he’d spent with his father had brought. He had allies, now, with shared loyalties cemented through the new adversities this life had brought.

He may not have gotten any training done, and he was not the slightest bit closer to countering the Agarthans’ yet-unclear schemes, but he felt that the burden he carried may have just lessened ever so slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that wasn't too terrible. 
> 
> As mentioned, I've put this story aside for some time, and (cough cough) forgot where I wanted to take it. The fact that I'd burned out after churning out the first ten chapters didn't help matters.
> 
> That being said, I'm hoping to work on this more now, since things have stabilised somewhat since the hectic rush that was the start of October. I wrote up half of this during ELISA incubations, and then the other half under the influence of caffeine. Hopefully it remains coherent, even though I think the quality of my writing has dropped quite a bit.
> 
> Anyway! Enough rambling! See you guys next time (if you stick around, that is)!


	12. Benthos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benthos: n. (ecology) the flora and fauna found on the bottom, or in the bottom sediments, of a sea or lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edit 1: I've now uploaded a new companion piece to this series, check it out if you like! I appreciate any feedback on it, since it's my first time trying out that style of writing.)
> 
> Remember how I said I was going to start working on this more back in November?  
...yeah, that was a lie.
> 
> Had to change quite a bit of the story, since the computer that had all my story notes finally died back in January. All written in one sitting, not yet corrected, so probably plenty of typos ahead.
> 
> Warning: rant ahead
> 
> As it turns out, the only thing that gives me the time to write is a global pandemic, the university shutting down for an unspecified period of time, a rabid rush to get all my final experiments done before the lab shuts its doors (given only two days notice, I might add), scattering all students back home indefinitely (doubly worse for international students), a mandatory stay-home quarantine, and playing through the 'new' (read: slightly old, now) DLC to give me the impetus needed to write out something mildly legible. I (cough cough) still haven't actually played through the Blue Lions.
> 
> As you can imagine, I'm just a liiiittle bit stressed and frustrated, and it may reflect in my writing. Got a mild sore throat starting to take hold, too, and hoping that it isn't the coronavirus.
> 
> Ah, enough about that. Here's the chapter, and hoping that it at least makes more sense than my first year report that will have to be written with only a few months' worth of experimental data.

_Question 8. An enemy force is besieging Garreg Mach Monastery. You are a sniper participating in its defence, stationed up on the walls at an elevation of twenty-three metres. You have been provided with a variety of bows for you to choose from. Assuming that all bows are constructed using elm of identical quality and Wyvern sinew bowstrings of identical draw-weight, discuss:_

  * _The factors that may affect maximum distance travelled by an individual arrow._
  * _The relative advantages and disadvantages of choosing between a standard-issue longbow, recurve bow and reflex bow. Suggest, with reasoning, the material composition of your favoured bow if allowed free choice over its construction._
  * _The angle in which you would aim your arrow, making reference to the Arrow Paradox. Show all your calculations clearly. _

Ashe fought down the urge to groan. All around him, his fellow students were currently hard at work at their own certification exams. He’d probably passed the practical test with flying colours, having landed most of his shots on target (a feat he could hardly have replicated just a few moons ago), but Byleth’s training hadn’t prepared him for _this_.

Seriously, wasn’t this for defensive strategy? Who would have time to make the necessary calculations during an actual siege? Questions like these seemed more along the lines of what Annette would enjoy. For someone who was looking to become a Warlock, she certainly knew a lot about the finer theoretical details of archery.

Come to think of it, hadn’t he asked Annette a similar question a few days prior? What had it been; something about a ballista inside a castle and the angle that should be used?

He was _so_ grateful toward Annette for explaining how the physics of it worked. He didn’t fully understand _everything_, but it should hopefully be enough to satisfactorily answer this question. Quickly, he wrote down the answers to the question in as much detail as he could, then continued on with the rest of the exam.

Only two questions remained. At least those two seemed simpler. In the end, calculating flight trajectories when already being given variables, factors and constants was just a matter of simple trigonometry.

Of course, that didn’t mean that he actually _enjoyed_ working out such theoretical considerations. It wasn’t as though that group that had killed Lonato, attacked the Holy Mausoleum, and then kidnapped Flayn would stop and quiz him on the air resistance of his shots. More than likely, it’d come down to a contest of whether the end of a lance would find his heart before his own arrow buried its way into their skulls.

His face darkened, and his expression turned steely. No. He had no time for such idle thoughts. This – _all _of this – was so he could become a Bow Knight as quickly as possible, and uncover the truth behind all these mysteries that Byleth had promised to reveal. His annoyance numbed down, he returned to the work at hand, methodically working his way through the equations.

When it was finally over, he heard the loud grumbling of the other students that had chosen to take their certification exams that weekend. Most wouldn’t have expected to pass, seeing as most students from the Monastery only earned their Advanced Class when they were close to graduation. It was still only the Verdant Rain Moon, after all.

Still, Ashe could not afford to wait that long. He _needed_ to improve and to become a Bow Knight. There was no other choice. He needed for Byleth to recognise that he was ready to take the fight to Lonato’s murderers, and if it meant having to work tirelessly for this certification exam then so be it.

Of course, certification exams weren’t perfect in measuring actual skill in combat. It was one thing to know the theoretical basis for choosing different bows, and another thing entirely to have the draw-strength needed to effectively wield a reflex bow. His interest in becoming a Sniper was in learning some of the techniques available only to those of a chosen Class, that would be of significant benefit in improving his performance in combat. Besides, theoretical knowledge of what he was _supposed_ to do would translate well into his progression during training.

He rubbed at his mildly aching shoulder. Three hours of gruelling writing had taken its toll. He shuddered to think what it would have been like nary a few moons back, before he had taken up archery with renewed determination.

“Man…” Ashe turned at the disappointed sigh, only to find a glum Raphael slowly putting away his pencils back into his bag. “That exam was hard, huh Caspar?”

“Eh?” Caspar asked, surprised at being addressed. “Well… I wasn’t too sure about question twelve, but I _think_ Byleth mentioned something about muscle synergies and variations in grappling techniques in relation to different body habitus?”

“Was that the answer?” Raphael’s despair only deepened. “Oh no…”

“Hey, don’t sweat it, Raphael!” Caspar said quickly. “I saw you in the practical exam! You aced it completely!”

“You think?” Raphael looked at him hopefully.

“Yeah! I’m sure you passed!”

“Daww, thanks, Caspar!” Raphael grinned, a hand behind his head in mild embarrassment. “Say, all that thinking’s made me hungry! How about we grab some lunch and then go for a quick spar?”

_Grappler talk_. Ashe tuned them out. He’d seen the pair duking it out many times on the training grounds, and after learning about how he and Byleth had begun training before classes, they had taken to arriving at progressively earlier times in friendly competition over training. He was fairly certain that they would both do fine in their exams.

“You’re looking contemplative over there,” Claude noted, lazily slinging his satchel over his torso. “Don’t fry your brains out over that exam.”

Claude had also increasingly started to join in on the morning training sessions, particularly when they focused on archery. He wasn’t too keen on training with lances and riding, saying that he far preferred firing arrows form atop a Wyvern than while mounted on a horse, but Ashe had been surprised by how dedicated he was in joining their sessions. For all that Claude seemed to be laid back, he clearly was a driven individual.

There was no denying his skill with a bow, too. For all the effort that Ashe had put in recently, Claude had always been a step ahead of him. Whatever training he had prior to joining the Officer’s Academy had already laid out the basic framework for solid archery, and Ashe was only now playing catchup.

“Not in a talkative mood today, huh?” Claude continued, as they walked toward the door. “You know, I’ve seen you and little Teach at the training grounds even more than I’ve seen Raphael.”

“I’m trying to catch up with everyone else,” Ashe finally replied. “Everyone else in my House has got plenty of experience in combat, and well, I…”

He trailed off. As much as he hated to admit it, he was a little envious of his peers. Prince Dimitri and Dedue had trained since the time they were children. Felix, Sylvain and Ingrid had worked diligently as they grew up among the nobility, excelling with their weapons of choice ever since Ashe had first known them. Mercedes and Annette were both well-versed in sorceries and magical theory of all forms from their prior education in the Royal School of Sorcery.

In comparison, he was... well, he was but an orphaned thief, only surviving because of one man’s generosity and magnanimity. The first time he had ever held a bow had been in the few moons of frenzied training he had prior to enrolling in the Officer’s Academy.

All that, combined with all their natural talent and his own lack of one, meant that he needed to work doubly – no, _triply – _as hard as them. Sure, Mercedes might gently chastise him for thinking so negatively, but all he saw was the bridge of competencies between him and the rest of his House, one that he needed to quickly work at remedying. He knew that she didn’t mean it, and he could hardly hold a grudge against someone like her, but her complimenting his talent when he had confessed to his thoughts regarding his own inadequacies stung _worse_ than outright agreeing with him.

Thankfully, Byleth had proven to be an excellent mentor in that regard. He was practical and direct, never once falsely complimenting his skills. Some might call his methods overly brusque and harsh, but Ashe would gladly welcome all the criticism he could get.

Claude snorted, and the jarring sound dragged him forcefully out of his contemplation. Damn it. Inattentiveness like that would get him killed. Byleth had repeatedly drilled that point into his brain during their training sessions, and _still_ he allowed his mind to wander.

“You think you’ve got no experience in combat?” Claude spoke, and Ashe was surprised to see that he looked almost serious, for once. “You launched – what, thirteen arrows out of fifteen right on target, from a distance of a hundred fifty metres?”

“Twelve,” he corrected automatically. “The fifth shot was five centimetres off-mark.”

“Wow, such horror. That means the arrow cuts straight through parietal and occipital lobes rather than embedding straight through the middle of the target’s brain. Truly, a disgrace,” Claude retorted dryly. Ashe blinked, caught unaware by Claude’s sudden use of proper nomenclature mixed in equal measure with sarcasm. “What? You don’t expect me not to have picked up a thing or two when all you and little Teach do is discuss stuff like this during your daily morning rendezvous?”

“No, I didn’t mean –“

“Relax, Ashe. It was a joke.” Claude sighed, rubbing at the side of his head tiredly. “Really, I should introduce you to Lysithea one day. How both of you can put in so much effort into your studies while still remaining so glum, I can never understand.”

Lysithea? Ashe hadn’t interacted with her much, beyond that first joint training session that Byleth had held many moons ago, before they’d even gone on their first mission. He did see her in the library often, though, whenever he went to look up a reference text or to borrow a few books to read during his downtime, but she had always been engrossed in a tome of her own.

_Several_ tomes, in fact. She’d always been at the same table in the library each time he saw her, completely absorbed in the material of her study, looking as though she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for months. He knew that Byleth was concerned for her, but Ashe didn’t think it was his place to pry for the reason why.

“Well, don’t let me hold you up,” Claude said, gesturing nonchalantly with his thumb toward the corridor once they left the room. “Knowing you and little Teach, I’m betting you’ve already got a training session planned?”

Ashe nodded slowly. They were supposed to be working on lances today, after weeks of training focussing on archery in preparation for this examination. He still couldn’t fight anything _close_ to how Dimitri, Sylvain or Ingrid fought, but at least he no longer tripped over his own feet like he had the first time he held a lance.

“Man, you two really need to lighten up.” Claude sighed again, but then looked at Ashe with utmost seriousness. “Say, Ashe. I know we don’t know each other all that well, but help me keep an eye out for little Teach, alright?”

Now was his turn to snort. Look out for _Byleth_?

“If there’s something Byleth can’t handle, I’m not sure I’m in much of a position to help.”

“It’s not about that,” Claude denied. “Little Teach… he’s taking on a lot more than he should. Teach doesn’t say it, but I know he’s worried about him. The rest of us are, too. You saw how he was like after everything at the Holy Mausoleum.”

That gave Ashe room for pause. Professor Eisner was worried about Byleth? Come to think of it, Ashe had never seen Byleth ever truly relax before. When he wasn’t helping with Ashe’s training or those of the other students, or engaging in patrols with Alois as per his duties as a squire, he was always either partaking in his own drills or poring over obscure texts in the library. When had been the last time he’d even seen Byleth take the time to eat a proper meal?

And after the Death Knight had attacked the Golden Deer during the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth… Goddess knows just what had been going through Byleth’s mind. Even bedbound, with more injuries than Ashe could fathom, he’d _apologised_ to him for being unstable to assist with what should have been his own independent training.

Yeah, he could see what Claude was driving at. If Ashe was already exhausted by his present routine, he could hardly comprehend how Byleth could keep that up. Once he got the basics of lancework out of the way, he really should start seeing if Ingrid or Sylvain were willing to help offer some pointers, to help free up some of Byleth’s time.

He would have asked Prince Dimitri for help, but he didn’t seem to be his usual self ever since the accident at the training ground some time back. Outside of classes, he kept his distance from the rest of his classmates, and in the few moments where Ashe had taken a good look at the prince, he seemed almost to be lost. He understood that well, seeing as how he’d been in a similar situation for weeks following Lord Lonato’s assassination.

That wasn’t something to think about now, however. Sylvain said that he would make sure that Prince Dimitri didn’t take things too far, and that Ashe didn’t have to worry.

“I’ll look out for him,” he promised. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you know if something comes up during our training sessions.”

“Thanks, Ashe,” Claude said, patting him on the shoulder, then nodded, the playful spark returning to his eyes once more. “Good chat.”

Well, that was something. He shook his head, as the sound of Claude’s whistling faded into the distance. He began making his way toward the training grounds, readying himself for what was undoubtedly going to be a harsh few hours of practice.

Pain and exhaustion didn’t matter. Lord Lonato must have faced far worse. One way or another, with Byleth’s help or with those of his classmates – even working independently, if it came down to it – he would become a Bow Knight, and he would make _damned_ sure that those monsters were brought to justice.

-o-o-o-

“You’re proposing we increase the scale of the Battle of the Eagle and Lion?”

Byleth skimmed over the scattered pieces of parchment laid out on the table before him, a large and well-annotated map taking centre-stage. Truthfully speaking, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, since the Gronder Field was a territory he had come to know well from countless strategy meetings on the sides of the Empire, Kingdom and Alliance, and they needed every advantage in a time of war.

This, however, was not yet the war that would grip Fódlan in a stalemate for years. For a training exercise, the boundaries and scale of troops for the proposed upcoming Battle was honestly staggering. He didn’t think that the Church had offered that many resources to stage what was essentially a mock war game in past lives.

“Succinctly put, Byleth,” Seteth said, nodding. “Indeed. After the discussions that we have had, and the plans we have already put into motion, I believe that the logical next step is to nurture our students and future wartime leaders and ready them for what is undoubtedly going to be a war with our old enemies. We have already been caught on the back foot, and though we do not know when they will strike, we must be ready when the time comes. I have already briefed Professor Jeralt, but I would value your input as well.”

Don’t get him wrong, Byleth liked the idea. His former students were progressing rapidly in their development. Ever since things had begun to wind down after Flayn’s kidnapping and rescue, Seteth, Jeralt and himself had been hard at work putting their own plans into action. Thus far, they had agreed to keep discuss things privately between themselves for the time being, until they could be more certain of the Agarthans’ plans. For once, Byleth had no prior experience to draw upon, and could only postulate what they were currently plotting at based on what he knew of them from countless past lives.

For his part, he continued on his lectures on military strategy, drawing on a long list of skirmishes and veritable sieges he’d been privy to on both sides of Edelgard’s campaign. It was obvious that he was beginning to draw suspicion from Edelgard, given that his so-called hypothetical scenarios were uncannily similar to what she might have come up with on her own. He needed to keep it up, to have her remain distracted, so that she wouldn’t be able to focus on her role as the Flame Emperor.

Then again, was she still being kept in the loop by Thales and the Agarthans? Without Jeritza or Kronya around, transmission of information couldn’t be easy. Had her own loyalties been tested as well, given the more drastic measures that her allies had taken with Flayn’s kidnapping? After all, she had personally denied having ties with the massacre at Remire Village in all his past lives, since senseless slaughter was never part of her plan.

Already, his training was starting to bear some fruit. Ashe, among several others, had achieved his Advanced Class certification after his examination two weeks ago. Now, he had taken to training his skills with riding and with mounted combat diligently. Better yet, Byleth had more than once seen him working with Ingrid and Sylvain, and to his surprise _Ferdinand_, sometimes even in the hours before Byleth’s personal training. He had no idea what had spurred on this sudden change, but he would hardly turn away this pleasant surprise. Their ability to cooperate seamlessly with one another would be invaluable in seeing them through the war, and fostering relations with the Adrestian noble was always welcome.

Similarly, Caspar and Raphael were now regular sparring buddies, both of them having become Grapplers in the same examination as Ashe. Their methods of fighting were completely different, given their contrasting physiques, but still they managed to temper each other’s technique. Given how often he had seen them together outside of classes, it seemed that they were quickly becoming close friends.

Yes… that was good. Building up such relations between members of different Houses might just delay Edelgard’s attack on the monastery, buying them all precious time to prepare.

“Do you have any thoughts of your own, Byleth?”

He eyed the map before him. Unlike past battles, the scope of the battle had expanded to incorporate some of the nearby natural environment. While the familiar fortification that housed the ballistae whose range covered nearly the entirety of the field was still placed at the centre, the boundaries of the battlefield now included the base of a nearby mountain, forests, vast grasslands and more.

Considering that the proposed plan was for each House to be given charge of five _hundred_ troops, complete with the logistics needed to support such an army for the potential of several days of battle, he could see why the battlefield had to similarly be expanded. Still…

“How are you planning to provide that many soldiers, though?” he queried. “We agreed that the monastery had to be kept defended at all times. Would there still be enough knights left at their posts?”

“Rest assured, Byleth. We have already taken that into consideration.” Seteth reached for another scrap of parchment. Byleth scanned it rapidly, his brow rising with each sentence. “As it says, your father has already reached out to and secured the services of several mercenary companies. Together with the knights already present in the monastery and those that will return with Catherine and Shamir, we will be able to maintain our defence over the monastery.”

He hadn’t successfully received help from mercenaries in the past, but he supposed that his father knew just where to look for the right resources. With those bolstered numbers…

“That leaves roughly a thousand soldiers behind in the monastery,” he said, contemplating carefully. “Gronder Field is a day’s march away. Even if they should attack, we will at least be able to mobilise for a counterattack quickly enough.”

“That is our reasoning. We should not have any cause for worry regarding the logistics of our troops,” Seteth agreed. “Do you have any comments on the other arrangements?”

He peered over the rest of the notes. Troop positions, local environments and sites of strategic value stared back at him. He considered the information carefully, both from what was presented on paper and what he knew from personal experience, having fought on that same battleground many times over.

“I’d suggest opening up the territory here for the Battle as well,” he finally said, pointing to one corner of the map. “It provides natural cover from the ballistae, much like the mountain range to the southeast. It gives more room for strategic manoeuvres by other Houses from the one taking hold of the central encampment.”

“Hmm,” Seteth mused. “Yes, I see your point. It does provide a more even playing field for all of the three Houses. You certainly have an eye for tactics, Byleth.”

Hah. His appreciation for sound strategy had been won through blood. The only reason he suggested it was because _he_ had hidden out in that same area many lives past.

“You’ll be asking Rhea for permission, then?”

Seteth nodded. “I will need to make arrangements to incorporate these changes, but that is correct.”

“Remember, Seteth,” he warned. “Rhea… she cannot know of the truth. Not yet.”

Rhea was _temperamental_, was the best way to put it. For all that she genuinely cared for those under her charge, being confronted with the failure of Sothis’ return and the string of betrayals by those she trusted – Edelgard and Jeritza foremost among them – tended to cause her to turn down a darker path, bringing about a return of a vengeful Saint Seiros.

“Of course,” Seteth agreed. “As much as it pains me to keep Lady Rhea in the dark… I understand the necessity of it. Until the time that you and the Professor are in agreement as to whether to include her among our number, I will not betray the trust you have given unto me.”

“Thanks, Seteth,” Byleth said gratefully. With that matter settled, it was time to ask about one of his personal curiosities he hadn’t yet had the time to follow up on. “And Flayn? Is she still with Linhardt?”

Seteth sighed, more vexed than he’d seen the older man be since his daughter’s kidnapping. “Flayn… Flayn is alright, thankfully. It appears that her Crest has returned.”

“Isn’t that good news?” Why did Seteth sound so annoyed?

“It is. However, the heir of House Hevring now appears to be more fascinated with her than ever before.”

Ah. He could see the problem there. Seteth… well, he tended to be _slightly_ overprotective.

“He means well, I can assure you.”

Ailell-damned, he doubted he could ever recall a time where the idea of romance had even crossed Linhardt’s mind. Sure, he grew close to others in past lives, but that had been the result of Crest-fascination and a healthy dose of aggressive pursuit and reciprocation on the part of the other party.

“I know,” Seteth sighed. “That is _precisely_ what bothers me. Part of me wants to drag him away from Flayn, while the other part hopes that he can give her as close to a normal life as possible for one of our kind, especially given her – given the ordeal she has gone through.”

More than a moon had passed, but the kidnapping still clearly weighed heavily on his mind. From what little interaction with Flayn that he had been able to squeeze out in his limited time, however, she seemed to be recovering well.

“Don’t worry about it. I could go check up on them, if you want,” he offered. “Library again, I’m guessing?”

Seteth nodded. “That boy devours more tomes than a Queen Loach does its food.”

…well, Seteth must be at least slightly fond of Linhardt, if he was making that kind of comparison. Byleth knew just how seriously Seteth took to fishing.

“It is growing late, however. Are you sure you have the time to spare?” Seteth followed on, as he picked up the bundle of scrolls that he had prepared for his proposal to Rhea. “You do have another lecture to give early on the morrow.”

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted. Most of his lectures were just made up on the spot, anyway. He didn’t need much planning, given that he’d lived through all those battles in the past. “Besides, I wanted to check up on Lysithea, anyway. It’s been some time since I spoke to her.”

“Ah… her condition.” Seteth’s concern was on open display. “How is she? Regrettably, I have not yet found any information that may be of use.”

“She’s still tired and overworked,” Byleth said, annoyed. “Honestly, she really needs to understand that this isn’t something she can handle alone.”

Despite repeated nagging from his part and from those of the Golden Deer, she still forced herself to carry on with her research well into the night. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d already cleared her way through the vast majority of the library’s books.

Seteth _laughed_, and the thought of that was so outlandishly insane that Byleth had to take a moment to confirm that he hadn’t simply imagined it.

“This, coming from the man who faced dozens of foes a few moons back with nothing but a sword by his side? The same man who fought down the Death Knight, and then rushed headfirst into danger against Solon all by himself, and then later to Zonado?” Seteth responded to the questioning look Byleth sent him. “Are you really sure you should be lecturing her on that point, Byleth?”

“Tch,” Byleth made a sound, snorting. “You get my point. Besides, I had it all under control. She doesn’t.”

“I really would not classify the sort of injuries you sustained in the Holy Mausoleum as anything close to being ‘under control’, Byleth.”

Bah. At least this meant that Seteth trusted him, if he was speaking so candidly with him.

“I’ll see you later, Seteth,” he said instead, bringing their conversation to a close. He’d been lectured enough on that point; he really didn’t need to hear it all again.

“Take care.”

With that, he exited Seteth’s quarters that now served as their little operations base of sorts, and began heading toward the library.

Though a section had been closed off courtesy of the damage caused by the battle between Solon and himself, repairs had taken place surprisingly quickly. Some priceless tomes had been regrettably lost, but they were fairly cheap in comparison to saving Flayn’s life. From what he remembered of reading them in past lives, that section covered obscure myths pertaining to the Monastery, anyway.

Seriously, an underground city known as Abyss? Who could ever believe that? He had given a passing search of the area in one of his early lives after reading that book, but never uncovered any useful information. Even if Abyss truly did exist, it honestly didn’t factor into his present considerations, since as far as he knew it had no impact on the war to come.

Lysithea was at her usual spot, the table that allowed her a view of the entire library. She would never admit it to him at present, but in past lives she had revealed the reason why she chose it upon his return to Fódlan during the war. Claude’s guess of her keeping an eye out for ghosts wasn’t far off the mark, it seemed.

He spotted Flayn and Linhardt, the latter pestering the girl with an unmatched enthusiasm. Flayn seemed to be equally drawn into the conversation, politely and patiently answering each of his queries (and based on how many sheets of parchment lay on their table, there were a lot of them), and neither of them seemed to have noted his presence yet. He set them aside for now, heading over toward Lysithea, who only now noticed his presence.

Well, she at least looked slightly better than she did before the events at the Holy Mausoleum. Still, though, she was taxing herself immensely.

“Lysithea,” he greeted, pulling aside the chair at her table. “Mind if I join you?”

She looked at him for a moment, before relenting. “Sure,” she said, then hesitated. “Claude didn’t put you up to this, did he?”

“Claude?” he asked, surprised. “No, I haven’t spoken to him since last week’s lecture.”

“Good,” she said, temporarily taking a well-overdue break from her research, finally now putting down the quill in her hand. “Sorry about that. It’s just that after he sent Raphael and Hilda to check up on me, and then Ashe a few days ago, I can’t be too careful.”

“_Ashe_ did?” He didn’t think that Claude and him had gotten so close, but then again he didn’t much pay as close attention to his students’ affairs as he did in previous lives. How he ever had the time to go so far as to play _matchmaker_ in his very first few lives, he never knew. “Never mind, that. They’re all worried about you, you know.”

“They don’t need to be,” she snapped, but even that lacked the usual fire it had. “I’m fine. I can do this on my own.”

“You _do _remember what I told you all those moons back, right?”

She stiffened, then turned her challenging gaze away from his. “I know…”

“Come on,” he sighed tiredly at her continued refusal to _ask_ for help. “We’ve been over this before, Lys. Solving this unifies Reason and Faith theory.”

“Lys?” she repeated curiously.

He cursed silently. This Lysithea wasn’t the same one who he had spent countless sleepless nights with fruitlessly attempting to reverse-engineer and take apart Agarthan magic. Nor was it the one who helped him perfect his Agnea’s Arrow. _Nor_ was it the Lysithea who he had a friendly competition going on over who could cast the most consecutive spells most quickly.

Those Lysitheas were dead. Gone. The only Lysithea that mattered now was the one sitting across from him, waiting impatiently for his reply.

“Sorry. Old habit. Blame Claude.”

“He calls me _Lys_?”

“Only occasionally. Don’t worry about it,” Byleth said. Hopefully, Claude would never know how he had just thrown the blame onto him. “More importantly, though – have you had any luck, Lysithea? Otherwise, I’m going to have to drag Hanneman into this, as we agreed.”

He stared down her immediate protests before it even took hold. This was his _teacher look_, one he had perfected for use with an unruly student many times over.

“I have conjectures,” she finally said, ignoring his threat.

“Really?” he asked, excitement blossoming within immediately. “What are they?”

She didn’t reply immediately, folding away a page in her notebook before closing it. “Before that, though, I want to ask about anything you have come up with.”

He hesitated. Much of what he had was still based on very brief discussion with Seteth and even more flimsy guesswork, but he had a hypothesis of his own.

“I don’t have any concrete formulation to prove it, but I’m now working under the possibility that the Crests of Charon and Gloucester are incompatible,” he said slowly. He _knew _that black magic was still possible even with two Crests, as Edelgard could attest to. He had glimpsed her casting a _Fire_ just a few days back. “I looked into the records of past wielders of those Crests. While none offered much solid evidence, the Crest of Charon appears to boost martial prowess, while that of Gloucester amplifies magical ability. I’m now looking into the possibility of whether such incompatibility can be backed by existing literature on magical theory.”

Unexpectedly, rather than the excitement he had anticipated as her reaction, she slumped over on the table, rubbing at her eyes tiredly. “You too, huh?” she sighed, then withdrew a stray piece of parchment among the countless many already lying on the table. “Don’t bother.”

_That’s…_

“Theodel’s Model of Magical Symmetry?” he spoke, recognising the equations haphazardly scrawled on the paper.

“You _know_ about that?” Lysithea asked, momentarily surprised, before slumping over once more. “Of course you do. Why am I not even surprised anymore? I had to search for _weeks_ before finding that tucked away in Gremory Athol’s _Encyclopedia Magica_.”

Funny. He’d read it from the same book, too. Probably even the same copy placed in this library.

“But how does it link?” he quickly followed up, thoughts running through his mind. He hadn’t been keeping his knowledge of magical theory as refreshed as he’d like it to be in this life, but he _was_ still a Mortal Savant, Warlock and Dark Knight, among other titles.

“Grendel’s Third Law.”

“Conservation of magical momentum?” he translated absentmindedly, then eyed several pieces of paper whose inscriptions had caught his eye. “Those matrices…”

Dark magic on one side. Black magic on another. White magic made another central pile.

When presented like that, along with what she had already outlined, the reason why she didn’t sound at all surprised by his proposal was blindingly obvious.

“They’re dissymmetrical,” he breathed. “Dark and White Magic. Their arrays give a net magical vector, even if your Crests are anathema to each other when placed in their respective spell-circles. Black Magic operates on true Theodelic symmetry for resonance-boosting of its magical effects, and so…”

“Boom,” she concurred, a small plume of pathetic _Fire_ coming from the Black Magic spell. “It _annihilates_.”

“But then that means… even your Dark Magic isn’t at its true potential?” he asked, equally incredulous and awed. This was the Gremory who could already blast aside ranks of knights with a single spell. “Sure, based on these spell formulae – at present, there’s still a net effect of eighty to ninety percent of the spell taking hold –“

“Seventy-eight for Miasma. Eighty-three for Swarm. Seventy-two for Luna,” she corrected. “I’ve done all the calculations, right down to five decimals.”

“But that – that’s amazing, Lys!” the words rushed out from his mouth, uncaring that he just used her nickname once more, as he greedily flipped through the pages of her offered notebook. “This is formal proof – now we just need to –“

He paused. Something gnawed at him.

“Lysithea von Ordelia,” he said slowly, staring at her unblinkingly. “How _long_ have you been holding onto this knowledge?”

Her only reply was a muffled sound.

“What was that?”

“…six weeks.”

“Goddess damn it,” he sighed with annoyance both fond and genuine, leaning back into his chair. It took a few seconds before he could gather his thoughts. “Why haven’t you _told_ anyone?”

“I can do this on my own –“

“You can remove a Crest on your own?” he interrupted harshly. “Because to me, short of reinventing every single magical sigil in existence into linear constructs to bypass symmetry and thereby opening a new branch of magic entirely, removing your Crest of Charon seems to be the most obvious solution.”

“No, but –“

“Then _don’t_ do it on your own.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she stiffened. “You’re gifted at magical theory, Lysithea. You uncovered all this on your own, through sheer talent and that unerring determination of yours. Crest and Faith theory isn’t your forte. It’s alright to ask for help.”

Though she hated being treated as a child, at times like these, Byleth didn’t know any other way to get it through that stubborn mind of hers that this was not her curse alone to bear.

“No one can know about –“

“They don’t need to know all the details. We don’t even need to talk about your two Crests.”

“It’s my problem –“

“Well, too bad,” he said flatly. This had gone on for long enough. “Besides, I have it on good authority that removing a Crest is actually possible.”

Abruptly, her protests faded into nothingness.

“What?!”

“Yup,” he said. “Seen it myself.”

With that, he dragged her by the hand up onto her feet, ignoring the indignant yelp coming from her. Conveniently, Flayn and Linhardt were looking over at them at the sudden outburst.

“Hey, Linhardt! Flayn!” he shouted. At this hour of the night, the entire library was empty save for the four of them. “Lysithea here needs help with her Crest!”

“Did you just say _Crest_, Byleth?” Linhardt immediately questioned.

“Yeah. Charon, to be exact,” he continued saying, ignoring how Lysithea was squirming uncomfortably, trying to pry his hand away from hers. “It interferes with her Black Magic. She needs it removed.”

“Byleth, did you say removed?” Flayn shivered for a moment, no doubt remembering just what had happened to her, but then looked at Lysithea sympathetically. As always, there was nothing but genuine support and empathy from the child-like Nabatean.

“Well, removed, or at least dampened,” Byleth corrected. “Lysithea’s too stubborn to ask for help, so I’m going to be forcing her to make friends with you two. Is that alright?”

“Of course!” Flayn nodded readily, already pulling aside a chair for Lysithea. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lysithea!”

“Removing a Crest?” Linhardt was still muttering to himself. “An interference with Black Magic? But then –“ Abruptly, he yelped, bolting upright, and stared at Lysithea with wide eyes. “Does this have to do with your two Crests?!”

Byleth blinked.

Well, Linhardt had been the one to figure it out first, but he never suspected he would have known about that _this _early on.

“How did you –“ she blurted out immediately, then glared accusingly at Byleth. “You _told _him?”

“I didn’t!” he quickly denied. “Linhardt –“

“Aha!” he continued triumphantly. “I knew it! My intuition was correct!”

“You – you _tricked _me?”

“Trick is such a strong word. I prefer an educated hypothesis,” he corrected, leaning in closer toward her. “But enough about that! Please, tell me everything!”

Lysithea squirmed helplessly, looking over at Byleth. The previous accusation was now lost, and in its place was confusion and uncertainty. He shrugged.

“Will you three be alright on your own?”

“Of course, of course,” Linhardt spoke distractedly. “What a splendid evening, isn’t it, Flayn? All that discussion about your Crest, and now this! And to think that my wild hypothesis was correct! It’s like – like casting a line and thinking you’ve landed the Big One, but then you reel it in and it’s Seteth!”

Byleth blinked once, and then again, before deciding that it wasn’t worth deciphering just what he meant when he was in this state.

“Linhardt!” Flayn scolded, then looked at Lysithea apologetically as she looked genuinely unsure of just how to react to what was going on. “Sorry about that. Linhardt is just very excitable when it comes to Crests.”

“Well, have fun, you three. I’ll catch up with you later, alright?”

“Byleth!” Lysithea called out, equally in warning and nervousness.

“You are departing so soon?” Flayn seemed mildly saddened at that. He really needed to find the time to have a chat with her and Seteth at some point.

“Take care!” Linhardt took a moment to reply, before turning back to Lysithea. “Now, then…”

He had initially considered whether or not to stay, of course, but then decided against it. Lysithea had uncovered all this on her own. Linhardt was the expert on Crests here.

While he did genuinely want to know just what he could come up with given the present information, he knew that his presence would only serve to halt sorely-needed interaction between Lysithea and her peers. He knew, courtesy of Claude’s interventions in past lives, that Lysithea had to be thrown into the metaphorical wolves before she even considered making friends with others.

Well, the night was still young. Initially, he’d thought that he might have had the time to discuss magical theory with Lysithea for a few more hours to work on what he thought to have been a novel theory, but it seemed that she had things covered on her own. In that case, he may as well get some training in.

Of course, he wasn’t going to be that lucky. When he arrived at the training grounds, it quickly became clear that he wasn’t alone. That was surprising, because even Felix and now Ashe knew the value of taking a proper night’s rest.

It all soon became clear, however, once he saw just _who_ it was training in complete solitude.

Well, he already had a sincere chat with one former student. What was one more?

-o-o-o-

Blood.

The sight used to fill only his nightmares, but now his waking moments too were haunted by it. He could see them – in the corners of his vision, in the cracks in the walls, in the fires of the braziers that adorned the monastery’s walls. Glenn. Father. The knights.

For a time, he had thought himself to be free from the horrors of Duscur. For months, he had believed that things could truly return to how they had been before.

Then, he had lost control, nearly _killed_ a friend in what was supposed to have been a friendly training exercise, and he knew that Felix had been right all along. He truly was nothing more than a savage beast.

At least the voices were somewhat silenced, now. He didn’t think he could stand to hear more of their pleading and demands for things he couldn’t even begin to make sense of. Their scornful looks and judgmental stares as he still failed to deliver on their final requests were already taking their toll.

How long had it even been since the day he had injured Edelgard? Weeks? Months? The fact that it was an accident didn’t matter. Were it not for Byleth’s readiness and timely intervention, he would have been no worse than the monsters that had slaughtered his coalition of nobles and knights at Duscur.

He had merely been going through the motions day by day for some time. Professor Hanneman’s lectures were easy enough to follow that they distracted him from the spectres of the dead sitting among his peers in the classroom. Even the previous mission that had been assigned to the Blue Lions had been remarkably simple; a mere patrol task within the Kingdom’s territory. Were Lady Rhea and the others within the Church wary that he might lose control once more? If so, he had to thank them; the last thing he wanted was to claim the life of another because of his mistakes.

Heh. And to think that he’d previously told Felix that he couldn’t fathom why his childhood friend hated him so. More than everyone else, Felix had seen so clearly through the act that Dimitri didn’t even know he had been putting up.

He didn’t quite know what the others in his House thought about him. Were his other childhood friends equally wary of him? Had Mercedes and Annette come to resent him as well? And what of Ashe, who he’d seen training diligently with an unmatched intensity?

Did it even matter what they thought of him? Did someone like _him_ even truly deserve to be the leader of the Blue Lions?

Dedue remained ever loyal to him, but he at least respected his request to have some space for himself for the past few weeks. It was only during moments like this, in the dead of night when there wasn’t even a remote chance that he could hurt someone, that he dared pick up his lance to train.

As always, as the blood raged in his veins and his breaths quickened with each swing, he heard them once more.

_Avenge us._

_Flee! Run! Run, Prince Dimitri!_

_Dimitri! Run! I’ll hold them off!_

_Coward! You left us all to die!_

_Why? Why did this happen?_

_Go! Survive! Take – take care of Felix for me!_

A myriad of voices, mixed in perfect dissonance, a cacophony with only a few he could audibly discern. Father. Glenn. The knights. A few scattered civilians that had been caught amidst it all. They blended together with the sounds of rushing air as the tip of his lance cut through imaginary foes, heavy footsteps and rapid breaths punctuating their anguished cries and harsh rebukes –

“You’re up late.”

Abruptly, he paused, and the voices vanished as clarity returned to his mind. When had that much sweat even built up? He ran a gauntleted hand across his face, wiping off streaks of perspiration as he continued breathing heavily.

“You know, when Sylvain told me that he was worried, I didn’t quite think that it would be _this_ bad,” Byleth continued saying, walking toward Dimitri. “It’s already – what, eight hours since sundown? How long have you been training here?”

“Sylvain’s worried about me?” He responded, surprised. “I thought that…”

He trailed off. Byleth raised an eyebrow, patting a nearby stone railing in a gesture for Dimitri to sit, and he obliged.

“Not just Sylvain. Hanneman’s been concerned that you haven’t been keeping up on your training with the rest of your House, although that’s clearly untrue.” He gestured pointedly at the lance in his hands, its steel tip chipped from repeated use. “Manuela’s _still_ telling me off for organising that training session without proper supervision –“

Dimitri started at that admission. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble –“

“That _really _isn’t the point I’m trying to make,” he interrupted, sighing heavily. “Felix won’t admit it, but he’s caught between wanting to strangle you and beating the crap out of you while demanding that you spill everything that you’ve been bottling up. I haven’t spoken with Annette, Mercedes, or Ingrid, but Ashe tells me that all of the Blue Lions are worried about you.”

“They are?”

“Goddess,” Byleth swore silently, and Dimitri was momentarily taken aback. He always seemed to be in such complete control of himself ever since the day they’d crossed paths back in Remire Village, ever calm and prepared. “It’s been four _weeks_ since the last mission, Dimitri. Ashe says that you haven’t said more than a sentence to anyone from your House since then. The Battle of the Eagle and Lion is coming up at the end of the month. Yes, I think that they have cause to be worried.”

“That was not my intention –“

“Look, Dimitri. I know we haven’t spoken much in this – I mean, outside of training – and I won’t pry anything from you that you’re not ready to say, but you need help,” Byleth said, correcting himself mid-sentence.

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted, ignoring how the spectre that wore Glenn’s face flickered in the edge of his vision. “I can handle myself. I apologise if I have been the cause for any worry.”

He made to stand, but was surprised when Byleth tugged him back down. He felt a momentary surge of anger – why couldn’t he just leave him alone?! – but paused at the sight in Byleth’s eyes.

They looked… _empty. _Hollow. Heavy. That alone startled him enough to sit back down.

“Just listen to me,” Byleth said, removing his hand from Dimitri’s gauntlet. “Something like the Tragedy of Duscur isn’t a memory that will fade away.”

_What?!_

“How did you –“

“No offense, Dimitri, but it’s kind of obvious,” he interrupted once more, a complicated emotion in his eyes. “I won’t profess to having experienced what you’ve gone through, but I’ve lost people I cared about as well. They won’t come back.”

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.

Byleth eyed him curiously, then sighed. “I know what it’s like to live through something like that. You heard how I got distracted in the middle of my battle with Lonato, but now I’ll let you in on a little secret. At that moment, I hesitated because I saw someone I knew dying, and it cost me. He got a clean hit in.”

Dimitri remained silent. He could see it all again. His lance, cutting through Edelgard’s armour, all while the tormented cries of the dead rang in his ears while fires raged around him.

Byleth continued nonetheless. “I know how heavily it weighs down on your soul. You see them in everything you do, and you hear their voices all the time. Sound about right?”

“You have –“ he started saying, eyes wide, but paused. “Who… who did you lose?”

Byleth looked barely a few years older than he did. Why did he seem to carry so heavy a burden?

“That’s not important now,” Byleth brushed him aside, revealing nothing. “The point of the matter is this: what you’re doing now? All of this – training in secret, isolating yourself from everyone else? It won’t work.” He smiled mirthlessly, his eyes downcast. “Take it from someone who’s tried that before.”

Dimitri didn’t know how in all of Fódlan he could respond to that. The Byleth in front of him now was drastically different from the one he had known over the past few months, albeit distantly. Now, for some unknown reason, he was baring his vulnerabilities to Dimitri, uncertain and lost – much like himself – and altogether different from the one who was always calm and in control, with the martial prowess to back it up.

“Part of me wants to continue their legacy, to fight for what they believe in. For a long time, I tried to do that, but I’ve realised that that is impossible.” Byleth looked down at his own hands, continuing to speak without looking at Dimitri. “In the end, you _can’t_ fight for them all, because their beliefs contradict. Each of them was their own person. All you can do is to make sure that their deaths were not in vain. It took me the better part of my life to understand that.”

Again, he gave a mirthless smile, a dark joke that Dimitri couldn’t comprehend. His mind was more preoccupied on other lines of thought.

That… that meant that he couldn’t have been older than Dimitri at the time that he lost his entire world. Had he – had he _lived_ through something like the Tragedy? Had he been suffering in silence all this while? But he always seemed to be in such control of himself –

“If you’re willing to listen to some advice? Acknowledge it. Acknowledge it all_._” Byleth said, his gaze returning to Dimitri. “The dead. The sacrifices they’ve made. Their beliefs. All those are important, but ultimately you need to live for _yourself_.”

_Father. Glenn. The knights. _Their dying words.

“The dead are gone, Dimitri. Fight for yourself. Fight for their memory.”

“But how?” Dimitri finally asked, after the silence had stretched on. For once, he let the worries and fears he had kept hidden and buried beneath layers and layers of falsehoods show. “How do you – Byleth… how do you remain so calm and in control all the time, after experiencing something like that?”

He knew a prince shouldn’t be sounding so vulnerable, but for some reason, he didn’t much care. He’d never knew anyone who had lived through something like the Tragedy, much less regain a semblance of normality as Byleth had. He was desperate for answers.

“Calm? In control?” Byleth repeated, snorting loudly. “Hardly. Like I said, there was a time – quite long ago, actually – when I was just as lost as you. The only thing that changed is that my realisation that there’s nothing wrong with being lost. Live for yourself, even while remembering the dead.”

“But _how?_”

“That –“ Byleth paused. “That’s difficult to answer. You need to find your own way, Dimitri. Even _I _don’t know if I’m going about the right way honouring their memories.”

“You don’t?” he followed up. “But you always seem so certain and determined. You don’t – you don’t lose control, like I did back with El –”

His words caught in his throat, as that memory returned in full force. For several seconds, Byleth simply sat there silently, his expression utterly unreadable.

When at last he spoke, he did so with more sincerity than Dimitri had heard from the squire before.

“I’ll let you in on another secret, Dimitri,” he said, standing up. “I’m angry. I have been angry for a long time. I hate the state that Fódlan is in, I hate how good people have to die, but most of all I hate how nothing I do changes anything.”

For all that he spoke of hatred, his voice was utterly level and calm. Nonetheless, he continued. “But I’ve come to learn that you need to take hold of anger and fury. Striking out at everything, moving without so much as a plan – all of that achieves nothing, and only harms those few remaining that you’re trying to protect.”

Abruptly, he withdrew the sword that he kept secured by his hip, presenting it to Dimitri. Surprised, it took a moment before he accepted it.

“What do you think of it?” Byleth asked.

“It’s… reinforced silver, is it not?” he half-asked, half-spoke, confused. He studied it further. “And its make… the pattern on the hilt and edge… this is a Zoltan creation?”

“Good eye,” Byleth said, taking the sword back from Dimitri. “Now, watch.”

Without warning, he swung the blade forcefully against a nearby training post, the Crest of Flames manifesting in the air a split second before impacting against the hard stone.

The stone shattered into pieces, but that was not the most surprising thing.

A blade of reinforced silver, crafted by the most masterful of blacksmiths, lay broken in two halves, one clanging loudly against the training post below while the other remained attached to the hilt held in Byleth’s hand.

Dimitri was lost for words. He was stronger than most, having accidentally bent more training swords than he could count growing up, but this was… It took a moment for him to register what had happened, and the words came tumbling out from his lips.

“What – but that – that’s a _Zoltan – _why?!”

“A demonstration. Besides, it’s about time that I got it repaired, anyway. My point is this – anger is a powerful force,” Byleth said easily, pointing at the broken blade. “That’s you if you keep going like this, by the way.”

He paused. “Well, not _you_ you – but – you get the analogy.” He moved over to retrieve the blade, before looking at him directly in the eyes. “Anger is powerful, Dimitri. For a long time, it was the only thing that drove me. I imagine you hold such resentment in you as well, as much as you don’t show it.”

There Byleth was again, speaking as though he could see straight through into his inner thoughts. He had kept up appearances, convinced even himself that those of Duscur who had been responsible for the Tragedy had already paid for it with their lives, but even then the flame of vengeance still yearned for kindling.

“Eventually, though, it _will_ make its presence known. Whether it breaks or reforges you remains to be seen. All that I’m asking for is that when the time comes, you learn to channel it productively.”

He gestured at the broken blade, and though Dimitri couldn’t fully understand what Byleth had experienced, he thought that he at least knew the point he was trying to make.

Acknowledge the Tragedy. Let the dead move on. Turn the wildfire that threatened to leak past his control into a blazing kiln of strength.

Simple words, and yet so mind-bogglingly complex and difficult. To do so seemed as though to be a mockery of all that they had fought and died for. Already, he could see their faces closing in again.

“Just keep what I said in mind,” Byleth said, the sword already secured onto his person. “And for the love of the Goddess, _talk_ to your classmates. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sylvain flat out ignore a girl talking to him before. Felix completely whiffed two strikes during our last spar. If that isn’t a cause for concern, I don’t know what is.”

With those parting words, he left Dimitri alone in the training grounds. The ghosts of Duscur stayed with him, completely silent, watching for his next move.

Take hold of his anger, huh?

He didn’t know if he could forget the wishes of the dead as Byleth had. He didn’t know whether he could shatter _reinforced silver_ as Byleth had through sheer strength alone – well, not yet, at least.

But taking charge of the resentment he’d been denying for years? Making sure that the Tragedy would never again be repeated?

Yeah… he could do that.

Hopefully, the peers of his House would still be willing to speak to him after distancing himself from them for so long.

They had an upcoming Battle of the Eagle and the Lion to win.

-o-o-o-

She was excited. Enthusiastic. Ecstatic!

She had personally been summoned by _Thales_, of all people! She’d only seen him in person a few times before, back when she had been tasked with the task of infiltrating the lair of the Beast back before the plan had been scrapped, but she had been completely awed by him.

Thales seemed so… so _wise_, so determined, so amazing and inspirational! It was as though he knew everything that there was to know in the world – even the surface world, outside of Shambhala – and he led their people with conviction and strength. She had personally learned of all the trials and tribulations he had gone through as the leader of Shambhala during her early years, and it had been the greatest of honours to be distinguished enough in her combat prowess to be gifted with a Crest Stone of her own.

She could feel the implanted stone thumping in her chest, as though in agreement with her sentiment. Yes, to be personally singled out by Thales was an honour indeed. It was why she made special care to arrive extra early to his chambers, while still taking the time to greet those she recognised along the metal corridors of Central Shambhala. Rudeness was not an Agarthan virtue!

Yes, indeed. Kronya strove to be the very model of the Good Agarthan, just as her tutors taught her to. ‘_Restore the Light to Agartha,’_ she could recite the Prime Tenet verbatim, as every Agarthan was taught to do. _‘Bring enlightenment to the misguided souls of the surface world. Crush the vermin who worship at the feet of the Beast. Punish the remaining Beasts for their past transgressions.’_

That was the core of Agarthan education. _Do everything you can for the betterment of Agartha_. Some day – and she had the feeling the day was coming soon – they would all be called upon to fight for the future of Agartha. She could hardly wait for it.

Maybe that was why Thales was summoning her? Her pulse quickened. Could it be that they would finally send her in to infiltrate Garreg Mach Monastery? Oh, perhaps she could see Edelgard again? She had only met her, once, in her role as the Flame Emperor, during the one occasion where Kronya had been allowed into the surface world. The world above Shambhala was breath-taking, and it irked her that their people had been forced into hiding below.

It was to her surprise, when the metal doors to the room slid open after showing her authorisation to the guard on duty, that there were already several others present within.

“Solon? Death Knight?” she greeted, confused. Wasn’t this supposed to be for _her_ personal mission? Why were they here?

“Oh? Thales summoned you, as well?” Solon spoke disdainfully, and she fidgeted slightly. For all that she tried to distinguish herself, he never did like her, for some reason. “Well, I suppose you _do_ have a Crest Stone.”

“Damn right I do!” She thumped at her chest loudly. “Say, do either of you know what this is about?”

Death Knight stared at her impassively, wearing his full suit of armour as he always did. He never did reveal his real name, but to her he was simply the Death Knight, the right-hand of Thales himself. That made him _ridiculously cool_ in her book. She bet he could perform a textbook slaughter of an enemy, bisect him and rip his organs out within a matter of seconds. He just _had_ to be that good. She had heard the hushed rumours from some of the other Agarthans who had been on missions with him in the past.

“Fine, fine, keep your secrets,” she said, shrugging, bouncing on the soles of her feet as she waited nervously for Thales. Her nerves were on full display, but she really couldn’t be blamed for that, seeing as she would be meeting Thales himself. _Thales!_

Thankfully, she didn’t need to wait _too_ long. There was a faint popping sound – teleportation, she recognised. The door to his inner chambers opened, and Thales stepped forth, accompanied by a pair of –

“Humans!” she hissed automatically, holding her _Athame_ before herself, her stingers poised and at the ready. “Lord Thales! Get back!”

Thales chuckled. “Relax, child,” he rebuked. “These are surface humans, yes, but they are also our guests.”

Humans as _guests?!_

“My Lord, I do not understand –“

“Quiet, child,” Solon snapped. “Really, Thales? I must raise my objections to bringing Kronya into the fold! Her presence threatens everything we’ve worked for!”

“Patience, Solon,” Thales said, holding a regal hand out. “She may be young, but Kronya has distinguished herself as a combatant to be feared. She will be invaluable when we finally make our move.”

…was this really happening? Was _Thales_ actually praising her?

“We must move on to other matters, however,” he gestured at the pair of humans, who were looking around the room; a man and a woman. The woman made no effort to hide herself, while the man wore a thick, hooded coat that concealed every part of his identity.

How curious! Kronya hadn’t met a surface dweller in the flesh before – well, aside from Edelgard, she supposed. She didn’t _reallllly _count as one, anyway, since she supported them as the Flame Emperor.

“I trust that most of you are familiar with Cornelia?” Thales spoke.

Kronya gasped. This was _her__? _The one she had only heard rumours of, who had taken it unto herself to stir the beginnings of unrest that would lay the foundation for their return? This was the same master mage who instigated the Sacrifice of Duscur?

“Charmed,” Solon said, bowing his head slightly. “A pleasure meeting you again, Cornelia.”

“Solon,” she greeted. “I must say, Shambhala does have a certain… charm about it, to say the least.”

“Of course!” Kronya blurted out. “Shambhala is the pinnacle of Agarthan civilisation, the culmination of _generations_ of hard work from those who have come before –“

She shut up abruptly, at the warning look that Thales sent her, looking at him abashed.

“Well, you certainly know how to pick your lieutenants,” Cornelia commented, sounding amused.

“Kronya is easily excited,” Thales said, and she shifted nervously once more. She really needed to learn how to control herself before she embarrassed herself – and worse, _Thales! – _once more.

“Hmm,” Cornelia hummed, then glanced at the remaining human, who made no move to reveal himself. “Well? What do you think?”

“Shambhala…” he finally said. “Agartha… they really exist…”

“Ah, yes. Cornelia has informed me that you were from the Church. There is a great deal of misinformation that will need to be corrected,” Thales said. “Cornelia, will you mind doing the honours after this matter is concluded?”

The mage snorted. “Not like I have much to do with my time, anyway, after that mess in Fhirdiad. You still owe me for that, by the way.”

“But of course. Agartha never forgets to repay her debts.”

“Cornelia, you…” the hooded human’s voice trailed off, before he shook his head. “No, never mind that.”

He turned to face Thales, but still made no move to remove his cloak. Such hubris! It took all the restraint she had to force herself not to step over and demand that he showed Thales the respect he deserved.

“Is it true?” he demanded. “Can you really – can you really return the dead to life?”

Wordlessly, Thales nodded toward Solon. The mage stepped over to the corner of the room, toward the place that all Agarthans knew, but few witnessed. He keyed a few buttons on the control panel, and one of the walls of the room slid away, revealing what lay within.

_Nemesis. _The forefather of all Agarthans, blessed be his name.

“It’s true,” the man breathed, staring unmovingly at him. “_Nemesis_. You have him here. He – he’s _alive_?”

“He is in stasis,” Thales corrected. “It is not yet time for his glorious return… but to answer your question – yes, that is within the realm of our abilities. Make no mistake – it is costly, but if you can fulfil your duties as Cornelia has promised, then all this and more will be yours to grasp.”

Hah. Kronya could practically feel the greed and desperation coming from the man, now. Surface dwellers really were predictable.

“You – you swear it?”

“Of course,” Thales assured him. “Agartha remembers those who have helped her.” He eyed him critically. “Well, then? What is your decision?”

“I…” he said, clearly warring with indecision. “I – I accept.”

Well, well. It seemed this human had some brains, after all.

“Excellent.” Thales nodded. “Now, then. The item, as agreed.”

He dug into his cloak, withdrawing a small vial of a dark liquid. Kronya eyed it curiously, but knew better than to raise her voice.

Thales’ hand glowed for a moment, a sigil appearing in the air, before vanishing into bright sparks. “It is the genuine article. I am impressed.” He looked at the man quizzically. “The inheritor suspects nothing?”

“She believes it to be part of research to rid her of her little problem.”

“Well, well. To think that little Hapi would have run off to your little hideout after all these years. I _did _wonder where she’d escaped to,” Cornelia commented lightly. “Our chance meeting couldn’t have been more fortuitous, Aelfric.”

“Enough of this. Can you do it?” the one that Kronya now knew as Aelfric urged Thales. “Can you bring _her_ back to life?”

“Patience,” he rebuked gently. “This will plant the seeds for the fall of the Church, but we may have need for more of your services in time. I can assure you, however, that when that day comes, all that you seek will be yours to take.”

“And when will that day come?” he challenged.

“Soon. Very soon.”

A moment later, Solon closed the door to the chamber that held Nemesis (blessed be his name) once more, and only then did Aelfric take his eyes away from his resting form.

“Oh, and one more thing, Aelfric?” Thales commented idly, but there was no mistaking the threat in his voice. “Should you even so much as attempt to _speak_ to anyone else about what you have seen and heard here today, you will find that Agartha does not take kindly to those who would betray her. We have eyes and ears everywhere.”

He swallowed audibly. “I – I understand.”

“Good.” He turned to face Cornelia. “Cornelia, would you mind?”

Wordlessly, she grabbed Aelfric by the shoulders, and the pair of them teleported away from Shambhala. A powerful magical feat, considering that she was not originally of Agartha.

Now that the matter was concluded, Thales returned to addressing them. “Solon. We will shelve the original plan aside, for now. Begin researching into applications of the Crest of Timotheus at once. Divert the work of all our research divisions to this process.” The mage nodded. “Death Knight; Kronya. I want the two of you to double your training. Once we achieve a breakthrough, we may have need to call for an attack at but a moment’s notice. We will give those fools respite as they play at their little Battle at the Gronder Field, but once our research is complete, we will strike at once.”

This was it. This was her moment.

She would be part of an actual mission! After all those years of sitting through lessons upon lessons, defeating all the training constructs and her peers in practical combat, she could _finally_ do her part in restoring the light to Agartha!

“I will not fail you, Lord Thales!” she proclaimed.

“Good. Kronya, you are dismissed, for now. The three of us have other matters to discuss.”

She would have bristled at being excluded from the group, but she could care less about that right now. She, Kronya, Agarthan of the Twenty-third Generation, had been chosen as part of the most important mission that Agartha had known since Nemesis’ Conquest in the days of old.

She left the room quickly, already making her way to the training halls. Suffice to say, she would make damned sure that when the time came, she would carve out her own crest of blood from the vermin that worshipped at the feet of the Beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that made some modicum of sense, given that most of it was written with a sleep-deprived, jet-lagged brain. This was meant to be two chapters, with a few more scenes to bridge the gap leading up to the battle of the Eagle and Lions, but I'll see if I can muster up the inspiration needed to write those before going into the battle itself. Was a little unsure about derailing the plot from what my original vision of it was, but given that I didn't have any of my notes of it left on hand I figured I may as well include bits of the DLC.
> 
> On a side note, there seems to be plenty more FE3H fanfics now than back during last August, and I can't wait to start going through them (time travel fics especially are my guilty pleasure). Hope you've enjoyed it!
> 
> (Edit 1: I've now uploaded a new companion piece to this series, check it out if you like! I appreciate any feedback on it, since it's my first time trying out that style of writing.)


	13. Irrigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irrigation: n. the supply of water to land or crops to help growth, typically by means of channels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Wrote this up about three weeks ago, told myself I'd go back and review it but that just never happened. Hmm...  
Uploading it anyway, because otherwise it's just going to collect dust in my folder. Hopefully it's half-decent.
> 
> I've uploaded a one-shot companion piece to this some time back; do check it out if you haven't already (otherwise some minor details in this chapter might have appeared out of nowhere)
> 
> (Edit 7/4: Somehow made yet another spin-off piece to this AU while trying to get words to stick together, hope you check it out!)

“The annual Battle of the Eagle and Lion will be taking place in a week,” Seteth said, standing at the front of a packed classroom. “I have been kept abreast of each of your personal developments by your professors. While I have no doubt that each of you will demonstrate the utmost of your abilities in the coming battle, there will be a few changes in this upcoming battle compared to your peers from previous cohorts of students that you should be made aware of.”

His declaration caused a wave of excitement to spread among the assembled students, particularly those who were more keen to showcase the fruits of their training over the past few months. Already, Byleth could see the competitive spark burning within Caspar and Ferdinand, no doubt wanting the chance to prove themselves and their House after their showing in the mock battle months before. Raphael sat up straighter, although Byleth had no idea whether that was because he was actually _interested _in what Seteth had to say or if he was just mimicking Caspar.

Byleth stood silently by the side, waiting with the other three professors in attendance at the briefing. For the past few weeks, Alois had been busy with logistic affairs, having had to take up the position that was once entrusted unto Jeralt in past lives. With Catherine and Shamir shortly returning, along with the bolstering of the Church forces with the continued arrival of mercenaries, he had been running ragged for weeks trying to organise them.

Byleth had offered to help, but Alois simply shook his head, saying that there was no need for a squire such as himself to concern himself with such matters just yet. Much of it was simply trying to make sense of their growing number, he said, and that once the recalled knights finally returned to the Monastery, he would call for Byleth to assist him in organising the logistics of patrols and defence of Garreg Mach.

The students were more excited than he remembered them being in past lives, if the chatter he was now witnessing was any indication. Privately, he wondered if this was because unlike before, he wasn’t personally participating in the battle, which meant that for once this would be a true contest between _students_ of each of the three major powers of Fódlan.

Seteth cleared his throat, a disapproving look in his eye. Caspar gave a guilty smile at that as he quieted immediately, and Byleth had to suppress one of his own.

“The faculty of the Officers’ Academy has decided to increase the scale of the battle this year. While students previously commanded a small battalion of troops from each of their respective nations, we have decided that such an engagement is no longer satisfactorily able to prepare you for the uncertain times ahead.”

Some students started at that, but most of them nodded grimly. After the string of mysteries – Lonato’s rebellion and later assassination, the assault on the Holy Mausoleum and theft of the Sword of the Creator, and then Flayn’s kidnapping just two months ago, it was starting to become clear even to them that there was something amiss in Fódlan.

Seteth nodded, satisfied that he now had their utmost attention. “Accordingly, we have decided that each House will be in command of not only those representing their nations, but will also lead members of the Church of Seiros and mercenary bands into battle. In total, you may expect leading a force in the range of five hundred to a thousand men in number.”

“A _thousand?”_ Annette gasped loudly, then blushed as all heads in the room turned to face her. “Sorry! Sorry!”

It was obvious that most people were thinking along the same lines of thought, however. Edelgard was now frowning slightly, a look that Byleth had come to recognise as the same one she wore during every strategy meeting with her war council.

Claude was still sitting nonchalantly as he leaned back into his chair, his hands folded behind his head, but Byleth could see the gears starting to turn in that mind of his. No doubt he was already starting to factor in how whatever schemes he cooked up would have to change.

Dimitri looked better than he did back at the training ground, thankfully, and seemed to be looking forward to the upcoming battle. He offered a quick word to reassure Annette that no one took offense at her interruption – clearly, that impromptu pep talk had helped at least slightly – but was soon just as focused as Edelgard in what Seteth had to say.

Seteth took a moment longer to stare down a squirming Annette, before shaking his head.

“Accordingly, the duration of the battle will be extended, to simulate an actual military engagement that I pray none of you will be forced to witness in our time. As before, you will each need to make your own judgment regarding the quantities of rations and supplies that you expect will be necessary. The battle may last for a matter of hours, just as your predecessors have experienced, or may stretch for a period of days.”

There were mixed reactions at that. Clearly, students didn’t expect to be thrown into a situation like that, despite having been told the importance of maintaining supply chains over the past weeks. Already, Annette was furiously scribbling down notes, more-so than usual even for her.

Byleth hated having to throw his former students into reality of war so early in their lives, but this was going to be necessary if his plan for this life to deter and delay the start of this war as long as possible had any hope of succeeding. So he told himself, at least.

“To ensure that fairness is strictly adhered to, we will be providing each House with a fixed sum of gold with which to procure the services of mercenaries or troops from the Church,” he said. “Each House should carefully consider the number and composition of troops and equipment they requisition from the Battalion Guild and Church Quartermaster.”

After the previous few weeks of lectures on military strategy, Byleth could now see how the students appreciated just what this meant for them. Whereas those who had come before them as Officers of Garreg Mach didn’t need to make such considerations, having a fixed budget with which to allocate resources would shake things up greatly.

It had been one of his last-minute proposals to Seteth, just as the details were being finalised with Rhea. Beyond just a further extension of his plan to allow Claude and Dimitri to understand Edelgard’s brand of military tactics before the war actually began, he was privately also curious about how taking an active stance in imparting military strategy to all three houses might have changed the balance of power between the three when left to their own devices.

Edelgard’s hand shot up, and Seteth nodded.

“Yes, Edelgard?”

“Instructor Seteth,” she said respectfully. “How will the amount of resources required to request the assistance of a battalion be determined?”

“The Battalion Guild has a system of fixed prices for the procurement of services of those under their jurisdiction, as you are no doubt all aware of through past dealings during your missions,” he replied, addressing the room as a whole. “There will be a similar system in operation for this mission. Both the Quartermaster and Officer for the Battalion Guild will have a list of prices for requisition of supplies. I would encourage all of you to acquaint yourselves with these lists post-haste.”

“I see,” she said, her brows furrowed, already thinking about how to make use of this information. “Thank you, Instructor.”

Privately, Byleth wondered just what they would come up with. During wartime, they had no option but to turn to the strength of their own armies or their allies, but with access to the Church and the mercenaries that Jeralt had contacted there would be more room for them to adjust their respective strategies. Each power had their own favoured army composition: the Adrestian Empire, for example, was famous for the strength of its elite mages, while there were few who hadn’t ever heard tales of the legendary strength and bravery of Faerghus Knights in their full battle regalia.

Claude didn’t raise his hand before voicing his question. To his credit, though, he was not as flippant as he’d been back in Byleth’s classes, or from what he had observed him being with Jeralt. Likely, either the excitement of the upcoming competition was getting to him, or he simply knew better than to cross the line with the notoriously strict instructor.

“Hey Teach,” he said. “Do we get to know where we will begin fighting at? Or is that going to be a secret you’ll be springing onto us?”

“An astute observation, Claude. Byleth, if you will?”

That was his cue. He stepped away from the wall he’d been leaning on, unfurling the map that he’d prepared for the occasion as the informal aide to Seteth in his free time, now that he was temporarily freed of squiring duties with Alois. Byleth stretched out the edges of the parchment, securing it firmly against the board as heads craned forward to take a closer look. Thankfully, he’d managed to find a decently-sized map from Anna’s stock, even if the actual quality of the depiction left much to be desired.

(*)

“Each House will start from one of three designated locations. One will be at the base of the mountain range separating Gronder from the Airmid River. Two Houses will be placed across the bridge, to the south of Kyphon’s stand. One will begin just east of the Gronder Ruins, while another will enter battle at the base of the mountains to the northwest of the Airmid Overlook, where we will be observing the battle.”

From the nods going around the room, it seemed that the three house leaders had already made an effort to educate themselves about the geography of the battlefield, since they had already known about it many months in advance. That was good; Byleth had always stressed to them the importance of making full use of one’s surroundings both in skirmishes and in a full-scale battle. It seemed his students had been paying attention, after all.

“Two sets of ballistae will be placed atop the fort at Kyphon’s Stand, along with some rudimentary defences. You will have to make your own judgment call as to how you wish to make use of this information,” he continued explaining. “The boundaries with which you may do battle extend northward through to just before the bend of the Gronder Tributary as it drains into the Airmid River; eastward to the point of Indech’s Vigil, before the ravine of Pan’s Crossing; westward to the edge of the Gronder Ruins and southward to the end of the Gronder Quarry.”

Again, Byleth saw how his students were rapidly understanding the implications of this development. While a formidable position, the team that took hold of Kyphon’s Stand risked themselves being subjected to an assault from two fronts. Equally, they had the option of waiting things out in the forested hills to the west of Pan’s Crossing, moving across the two bridges to Airmid Base, or to retreat south to Gronder Quarry.

Maintaining control of the fort or baiting other Houses to commit to an attack were both valid options. Kyphon’s Stand was so named precisely because it was the site of one of the engagements led by Kyphon himself. Outnumbered by enemies five to one, he and his men heroically maintained control of the strategic point that marked control of the Gronder Field until reinforcements from his liege could arrive. He had no doubt that Ashe and Ingrid knew of this legend, what with their interest in the knights of old, and would appreciate the value of this location.

On the other hand, Pan’s Crossing and its forested vicinity were excellent for ambushes and guerrilla warfare. The exact details were debated among historians, but it was said that Pan, advisor and chief strategist for King Loog, had single-handedly defeated a small force of Adrestian troops that had been on his pursuit through the sheer brilliance of his tactics alone. Byleth doubted the veracity of those rumours, but it nonetheless highlighted how abusing the terrain had the potential to decisively alter the course of the battle.

Seteth allowed a brief moment for the students to continue staring at the map, and exchange quiet mutterings with each other as they pointed out areas of interest on the map. More than likely, as soon as this briefing was concluded, whatever plans they had devised would need a great deal of correction.

As far as battle plans went, having a week to prepare was a luxury, especially since they only had to make considerations for an army of up to a thousand men. More than once, he’d been forced to settle for the barest of strategies while commanding ten thousand soldiers in battle, hoping that experience would triumph where preparation was lacking.

“Are there any further questions?”

Claude didn’t hesitate. “What determines victory or defeat?”

“An excellent question. You emerge victorious so long as the other two Houses forfeit, or surrender. You may withdraw from battle at any time. Beyond that, you are free to decide how best to execute the strategy of your choice. Protective magics will be in place to minimise the risk of any fatalities, but I will emphasise that you are to use your judgment as to what is deemed an acceptable limit.”

“Gotcha,” Claude said, his lips stretched in a smirk that revealed nothing of whatever scheme he’d just cooked up, “Thanks, Teach.”

To the side, Byleth heard Jeralt groan. No doubt his father was already planning to interrogate Claude for what his plan was in their strategy meeting after the briefing, and to stress that his notion of an ‘acceptable limit’ was probably very different from that of others. He wished him luck, since he highly doubted Claude would tell him anything of value.

There were no further questions, it seemed. Either the other two Houses genuinely had a vague idea of what they would do with what information had been given unto them, or that they were keeping their cards close to their chest so as not to reveal any information to their rivals. Both were valid possibilities.

“If there are no further questions, then could I request for each of the House leaders to come forward?”

The three did so dutifully, although it was now clear that they would need to accommodate for many changes in whatever they had already prepared. Edelgard’s lips were pursed, Dimitri was every bit the serious wartime commander he would later become, and Claude allowed just a little bit of the shrewd tactician to leak past his mask of joviality.

Seteth held out three straws in his closed fist. “We will now decide where each of your Houses will begin battle.”

They already deduced as much. Without hesitation, each of them took one in turn. Byleth took a step forward from Seteth’s side, glancing over at them to see just how things would turn out. Seteth collected each of the straws from them, before nodding and addressing the trio.

Hmm. Interesting.

“Very well. The Blue Lions will begin battle at Airmid Base, the Black Eagles will start east of the Gronder Ruins, and the Golden Deer will be positioned at the foot of the eastern mountain range.”

There were scattered murmurings once more, and Byleth straightened out the map for the benefit of the seated students. No doubt, Anna would soon find herself with much increased business as they adjust their battle plans.

“This briefing is now concluded. You are all dismissed to each of your House classrooms. You may convene with your professors for advice, but I suggest that you decide quickly on a plan of action and make haste with settling the necessary arrangements in terms of logistics.”

One by one, each House exited the classroom, led by their instructors, exchanging hushed discussions all the while. Jeralt sent Seteth and himself a silent gesture, one that Byleth knew meant that they would soon have to discuss matters pertaining to the secrets shared between the three of them. As things were, they still hadn’t decided how to move forward with the Agarthan situation, save for heightening the guard around Garreg Mach and its vicinity, and making known the fact that the ‘unknown infiltrators’ responsible for these past events were capable of morphing their identities into those of others.

“A most interesting turn of events, do you not agree, Byleth?” Seteth asked, as he removed the map from the board.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“There is no need to be coy,” he scolded lightly. “I have heard nothing but praise from the other professors regarding the lectures you have carried out for the students.”

“Really?” Byleth asked, genuinely curious.

“Indeed.” Seteth nodded. “Professor Manuela was surprised, to say the least, when young Caspar raised a question pertaining to one of your lectures in class.”

Huh. Good for them.

“Fine, then,” he said, sighing. “From what I can tell? Each of their starting locations plays greatly to the strengths of their Houses.”

Seteth waited patiently, and he felt obliged to continue.

“The Lions can hold a defensive position across the bridge. Position a few armoured knights of Faerghus at the chokepoint, and likely nothing short of a fully committed assault can break their position. On the other hand, the bridges force them to mobilise more slowly, which likely prevents them from seizing the fort from the start.”

“Indeed.”

“That leaves the Eagles and Deer. If she commits, Edelgard probably takes over Kyphon’s Stand, although doing so risks retaliation from the other two Houses. Meanwhile, Claude has the option of rushing down the encampment, or ordering a general retreat into the forest or further to the south to wait things out. If anyone tries pursuing, the forest cover and Alliance tactics heavily favour the Deer.”

When the war came, Edelgard’s strategy always revolved around the use of the fort both as offensive and defensive options. She would always begin the battle with a precise, pre-emptive strike, positioning a commander to take charge of it and control the general centre of the battlefield. Once her opponents finally began to storm the encampment, she would willingly set it ablaze, sacrificing her own men to take out a sizeable chunk of her opponents’ forces.

In terms of pure utilitarianism, it was a sound strategy, but it always left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was something that Byleth had never forgiven her for, especially since the commander had genuinely been one of her close friends in most lives. It was only in the lives where he sided with her that he managed to convince her out of such a course of action, but doing so always closed other doors.

Thankfully, in this battle, she couldn’t employ the same brand of tactics, due to the nature of the war game. There was no way she would tip her hand and reveal her willingness to sacrifice pretty much everything she had at her disposal to achieve victory in her crusade against the Church.

“A keen analysis,” Seteth said, an eyebrow raised, seemingly impressed. “You almost remind me of Macuil.”

“…do I look like I hate humans that much?”

That eyebrow remained raised, although he was now unimpressed. Byleth sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “You exaggerate. Saint Macuil is said to be one of Seiros’ foremost eminent strategists, one that turned the tide of the War of Heroes.”

Seteth took a quick glance at the door, confirming that they were in private. “As his brother, I can assure you that this comparison is not without reason.”

Byleth suppressed a wince. His past dealings with Macuil… well, they tended to end with him being chased away from the Sreng region while an angry Wind Caller launched blasts of magical energy behind him. Indech was always much calmer and more level-headed, and Byleth still owed him greatly for his tutelage all those lives back, even if the Immovable couldn’t directly assist with the war.

“It probably won’t go that way, anyway,” Byleth said, shrugging. “Even if Claude holds Kyphon’s Stand, a continued barrage from Adrestian mages would probably force them to abandon their position. If they play to their strengths, it’d be hard to say who comes out on top after the initial engagements. For all we know, they could both wait for their opponent to make a move on the fort, in which case the Lions may even be able to fully mobilise across the river and make a bid for it themselves.”

“Hmm,” Seteth hummed. “That is true. It appears we will need to wait and see just how they decide to proceed.”

“If that’s all, I’ll go check up on Alois,” Byleth said. “Even if he says he doesn’t need my help, it’s probably best if one of us three give a quick inspection of the newcomers, just in case the Agarthans decide to send more infiltrators.”

Seteth’s face darkened at that, no doubt remembering just how he and everyone else in the Monastery had been fooled by Solon’s act. He nodded, said a quick goodbye, and Byleth left the room.

The Agarthans had been strangely quiet for some time now, after the flurry of activity that had been the first four months, but he knew they were planning something. In past lives, they should have already begun working on their experiments at Remire Village, but thus far there seemed to be no trouble afoot, and Byleth didn’t like that in the slightest. Was their silence because obtaining the power of Flayn’s Crest made whatever they achieved there redundant, or were they simply waiting out for an opportunity to change their plans?

One way or another, he swore that he would be ready for their next attack, whatever it may be. The Church would soon be more fortified than ever before, and he would make damned sure to stop allowing the Agarthans to continue taking ground in their shadow war.

-o-o-o-

“Alright, team. Any ideas?” Claude asked, lazily perching himself on the desk at the front of the classroom. The _teacher’s _desk. Jeralt’s desk.

How far had he fallen, that Jeralt no longer cared about berating his student for failing to observe appropriate propriety?

It was almost funny. Decades ago, he’d been infamous among the rank and file of the Church of Seiros for being a strict disciplinarian. How was it that this one Alliance noble could continue keeping this up where thousands of Knights of Seiros had been forced to yield?

Falling in love with Sitri and having had to raise Byleth really had changed him, huh?

He shook his head, listening into their discussion from one side. He’d decided that he would act as a simple bystander, offering his input only when solicited. This Battle was supposed to be part of their own growth like any one of their regular classes, even if the lessons that could be earned from it were now more necessary than ever. From what Byleth and Seteth knew of these ancient enemies of Fódlan, it seemed that a storm was imminently brewing.

“Surrender?” Hilda quipped quickly. “Then we all get to join the Professors, nice and clean; no need for us to get all sweaty and dirty –“

“Excellent suggestion, Hilds!” Claude gave a thumbs up, ignoring the indignant protests from his fellow noble at the use of her nickname.

Jeralt sighed. It seemed like he would need to intervene, after all.

“You can’t just surrender, Hilda,” he scolded, although there really was no bite in it. His former men would have laughed at how the once-mighty Knight-Captain had fallen. “Take this seriously, all of you. It’s rare for any of you to get the chance to participate in a mock battle of this scale in your Academy days.” He grimaced. “Trust me, you don’t want your first time leading a battle to be during an actual engagement.”

Many mercenaries in his previous band had amicably parted ways with him before, stating their desire to start up groups of their own. Few actually managed to make a name for themselves. Most either returned to his side after failing to distinguish themselves, or simply perished with the men under their command after undertaking missions they were scarcely prepared for.

“Well said, Teach!” Claude said, ignoring the general gloomy atmosphere his words had created. “Anyone else? Ignatz? Lorenz? Leonie?”

“Uh… well…” Ignatz spoke hesitantly, and Claude urged him to continue. “I think we’ll need to decide what kind of army composition we’re going for first, right? Then we can settle the rest of the logistics around that?”

“True,” Lorenz mused. “I believe it likely that the Blue Lions under the leadership of Prince Dimitri will favour their strategy around the use of mounted cavalry and armoured knights, as the Kingdom of Faerghus is renowned for. Likewise, Lady Edelgard will probably be relying on the Empire’s expertise with Black Magic.”

“The classic mage column protected by Fortress Knights, right?”

Heads turned toward Raphael, and even Jeralt had to bite down his surprise.

How, in all of Fódlan, had he managed to actually say something both intelligent _and_ relevant?

“What?” he asked nervously, glancing around. “Why’re you all looking at me? That’s what Byleth taught us, right?”

…he’d actually paid attention? Jeralt really had given Raphael far too little credit.

“Of course, Raphael,” Lorenz said. “Indeed. The annals of history is filled with records of military engagements where the Adrestian Empire emerged victorious through a magical bombardment at range, all while their enemies failed to break through the protective lines at the vanguard. Their masterful use of light cavalry complements this, as they chase down enemy lines that are disrupted by their initial assault.”

“Their weakness lies in how long they can keep their bombardment up,” Lysithea offered her own contribution. “We can either take cover from their spells, or try to maintain our own defensive barriers. Once the mages are exhausted, there is a window of opportunity for a counterattack. King Loog’s victory against the Tailtean Plains demonstrates this vulnerability.”

Jeralt had no idea what exactly happened to her, but she’d been looking more healthy as of late. The bags under her eyes had lessened, at the very least, and for once it didn’t seem as though she was forcing herself to stay awake through the day.

If only the same could be said for Marianne. It had been months, but the girl was still as silent and meek as ever. He’d racked his brains for some ideas, of course, but even pairing her up with Claude for stable duties or to manage the greenhouse hadn’t done much to break her out of her shell.

“So we’ll need a team of mobile troops to take them out once that happens, then,” Claude summarised. “Mounted cavalry, or a small group of Pegasus Knights or Wyvern Riders. We’ll need to get our hands on the list from the Battalion Guild to see what we can afford.”

“Won’t it be difficult to face the Blue Lions if we do that, though?” Leonie asked. “If we want to mobilise quickly, we can’t make use of heavy weapons or armour. If that’s the case, then we can’t punch our way through their armoured front-lines.”

Jeralt was mildly impressed. When he’d first started teaching this class, most of them hadn’t the faintest consideration for tactics. Even Leonie, who was now urging caution, had been eagerly charging into the fray, hoping for some bizarre reason that Jeralt would take her under his wing as an apprentice.

“We’ll need to get some mages as well, of course. It’ll be a balancing act.” Despite his smiles, Jeralt could now recognise that ideas were starting to form in Claude’s mind. “His Highness and Her Majesty know all about the tactics of their nation, and they’ll probably be going with them. We’re pretty handy with archery, but, well…”

There was a pause.

“It is true that the secession of the Five Great Lords of the Leicester Roundtable from Faerghus was not as heavily reliant on sheer tactical brilliance, and instead heavily influenced by the sheer necessity of putting down internal conflicts in Faerghus and Leicester than any actual military conflict on the scale of the War of the Eagle and Lion,” Lorenz conceded reluctantly. “The Leicester Alliance does not have any formal military doctrine similar to those of the Adrestian Empire or the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.”

These kids certainly knew how to take a pessimistic view of things. Sure, neither the Kingdom and Empire would consider each other their biggest rivals if a war did break out in Fódlan, but the Alliance was nothing to scoff about either. Morale, for one, was higher among the rank and file, since there was slightly less of a divide between nobility and commonfolk there. Tactical flexibility also reduced the risk of making a blunder through falling back on traditional strategies.

“Well, then doesn’t that just mean that we have the element of surprise?” Raphael said, shrugging. “If the Alliance doesn’t have a plan, then they think that we won’t have a plan, so when we _do_ have a plan, they’ll think that our plan isn’t actually really a plan? It’s like feints in grappling, right?”

Jeralt blinked, as he tried comprehending Raphael’s statement, and found that it once again made sense, frustratingly enough.

“That’s a good point, Raphael. They’ll probably see each other as the biggest threat, and base their troop compositions and strategy around that fact,” Claude said, gesturing for Hilda to jot down a few notes on the sheet of paper she had at the ready. “We can’t take them on in a direct fight, but they won’t know what we have planned, either. We’ll need something that lets us adapt to an evolving situation.”

“So, you’re saying that we don’t actually have a concrete plan?” Lorenz asked disapprovingly. “Claude, I respect your talent for unorthodox tactics, but this is irresponsible; especially so for one who would be next in line to lead the Leicester Alliance!”

“Woah, calm down there, Lorenz.” Claude held both palms up. “We’ve got a plan. A plan so good, in fact, that we’ll be dividing our forces into two groups.”

“Two?”

“Our strategy relies on out-manoeuvring His Highness and Her Majesty. It’s going to be difficult moving an entire army at once, even if it’s only a thousand troops at maximum. If all three of our Houses end up fighting at some point, it’s going to get chaotic. We’ll need to make sure that we won’t get lost in the mess.”

Hmm. He did have a point. Though his former Knights had been trained to follow strict regimentation, he knew how easy it was for communication lines to be shattered during a battle and for troop organisations to be thrown into disarray. Sure, mobilising a thousand troops may not be that cumbersome in the grand scheme of things, but even that marginal benefit could provide them with a slight edge against their enemies.

“What are you suggesting, then?”

“What I’m suggesting, Lorenz, is for you to lead half of the army as second-in-command.”

There was a brief moment of silence, alongside sharp inhalations of breath, and even Jeralt found himself surprised. He wasn’t so blind as to fail to notice how the Gloucester scion heavily disapproved of the way that Claude behaved as the future heir of House Riegan.

“What?” The haughty tone in his voice was now lost. Lorenz seemed just as confused as his peers, who were only now beginning to realise what Claude had just said.

“You heard me,” Claude continued, shrugging. “You take half of our soldiers. If things get chaotic and we get separated, you can take independent command of them. That way, we maximise our chances of seizing opportunities when we get them.”

“That – Claude, you –“ Lorenz said, his eyes wide, then cut himself off. He inhaled deeply for a moment, closing his eyes tight.

When next he spoke, it was with a tone Jeralt hadn’t been expecting from the noble. “I’m afraid I must reject your offer, Claude.”

“Huh?” Even Claude seemed surprised. “Why not?”

“I am not so arrogant as to believe that my skills in battlefield leadership are sufficiently developed for this task,” he said, and now there was a trace of that noble air in his voice once more, although tinged with more honesty than Jeralt had come to expect from the brat. “Now, if we were talking about administrative matters, I would be more than happy to rise to the occasion.”

“Huh.” Claude said, blinking. Then, he shrugged. “Well, that’s good and all, but I do need someone else to take charge. We don’t need a fifty-fifty split, but I think having semi-independent groups is a good plan. Any volunteers? Hilda? Ignatz?”

“NOPE!” Hilda replied immediately, backing away. “You’re already lucky that I’m not just giving up right away! Don’t try to force more responsibility onto me!”

Ignatz was similarly shying away, making incomprehensible sounds. Claude sighed, looking over at his peers, before turning to face Jeralt.

“Teach, got any ideas?”

He was momentarily surprised, having only had to act as an observer thus far. They had quite some good ideas going, even if their overall strategy would truly shine only in a larger scale battle involving tens of thousands.

He glanced over at his students. Lorenz, Ignatz, and Hilda had already declined. Marianne wasn’t suitable for the task, given that she was having trouble talking even to her own classmates. Raphael had potential, but he did have a tendency to pick fights wherever they may be found. Lysithea had talent for tactics, but he wasn’t sure if she could easily lead a group of hundreds, especially since she’d only now just started showing signs of opening up to her peers.

Leonie…

Well, if she could just get rid of that ridiculous idea of hers that she needed to impress him, she seemed like a decent choice.

“Leonie,” he said, and she practically jumped.

“W – what?” Her face was flushed, her voice pitched higher than normal. “M – me, Professor Jeralt?”

“You’ve got potential,” he continued saying, ignoring how her embarrassment deepened. Goddess, how’d he ever gotten into this mess? “If you’re going to become a mercenary captain one day, you’ll need to start from somewhere.”

“I –“ she started saying. “I… I’ll do my best!”

“Well, that’s settled, then!” Claude clapped his hands loudly. “Leonie, you’re second-in-command if things go south. For now, we’ll need to decide troop organisations and supplies. We’ll get a copy of the lists from the Quartermaster and the Battalion Guild, and see how best to allocate our resources.”

…why did he have that gleam in his eyes?

Jeralt knew by now, after six months of teaching the kid, that _that_ look was reserved for times when he had something especially cunning and unorthodox prepared.

“You know you can’t poison your enemies’ food supplies, right?” he said in precaution. He _really_ didn’t want to have to explain to Hanneman, Manuela, Rhea or Seteth just why the other students suddenly lost control of their bowels in the middle of a battle.

“My word, Teach! How your words sting me!” he cried dramatically, clutching at his chest. “Alas! My dastardly scheme has been uncovered!”

Damn it. Now that brat was just having fun messing with him.

“Don’t worry about it, Teach,” he said, recovering just as quickly. “Even I want to fight Dimitri and Edelgard at their best.”

Why was it that that sentence seemed both truthful, and yet concealing some other plan he had in mind?

Jeralt glared at him for a moment longer, but Claude didn’t even flinch. Finally, he sighed.

“Alright, then,” he said. “Good work, kids. You seem to have a decent grasp of strategy, so far. You’ll probably be fine on your own, so I’ll head back and see if Alois needs any help.”

“All thanks to the mini-you and his lectures,” he said. “Say hi to little Teach for us.”

Then, Claude turned back, and began organising his classmates.

“Alright, Ignatz. I need you to go find the Quartermaster. Hilda, you’re in charge of the battalion guild. Lysithea and Leonie, give me a rough draft of five ways you think that the other Houses might approach the battle. Lorenz, you’ve handled Gloucester’s logistics before, so I’m counting on you to figure out how much supplies we’ll need for our army. Raphael, Marianne, can you two help with taking down notes just in case we need to refer to them some time in the next few days?”

Heh. They’d really come pretty far in six months, haven’t they?

As he walked to the door, Jeralt found himself genuinely wondering just how the battle would turn out.

-o-o-o-

As she led her contingent of troops on the march from Garreg Mach to the Gronder Field, Edelgard would be lying if she said she felt confident about the upcoming battle. To Byleth’s credit, her initial read of him back during the tea party all those months before hadn’t done him sufficient justice. Through his lectures, he had revealed that he had a clear mind for tactics, and had considered aspects of his hypothetical battles that she hadn’t even thought of.

Just as he had been back then, though, he still proved to be an enigma. It would obvious that she would have to cross blades with him at some point in the future, given that he had sided with the Church against Those Who Slither in the Dark. While her allies had been oddly silent as of late, they had told her to watch out for him, and revealed that he was, in fact, the vessel of the original progenitor Goddess, Sothis herself. His masterful use of the Crest of Flames was proof of that.

It surprised her when she had initially been uneasy with the thought of having to face him in battle. There were times when he seemed to be opposed to the way that the Church enforced its will over all of Fódlan, but he appeared equally unwilling to act on it.

Since the original plan of sneaking Kronya in under the disguise of a student was now moot, she had plenty of time to think about her next moves. Frustratingly, there was little that she could do until it was finally time for her to take her title as Emperor of the Adrestian Empire. Even in her guise as the Flame Emperor, there was nothing of strategic value that could be targeted at the moment. Thales had assured her that the time to act would soon come, but it was obvious that he was keeping certain things hidden from her.

The past few months had given her time to consider just how much of what Thales had told her was true. She knew, without a doubt, that it was his organisation that had been responsible for the suffering she had endured as a child, and for the premature deaths of all her siblings. For that, she would see that justice was meted out when the time came.

The rest, though? His version of the truth about Crests and how the Church had shaped and controlled the history of Fódlan were consistent with the records she had managed to uncover from the royal Adrestian library. Emperor Wilhelm I, her ancestor and founder of the Empire, had described how he had received his Crest of Seiros from Saint Seiros, whose description matched almost exactly with Rhea’s appearance.

She did have some doubts of his other claims. What he said about Nemesis never being power hungry, and instead struck down by Seiros for his close relationship with the Goddess didn’t align with her ancestor’s secret records. It was clear that Thales was attempting to manipulate her, to find more reason to hate the Church, but she wouldn’t call him out on it just yet.

It wasn’t as though she wasn’t planning on doing the same to him, anyway. She was certain that they both knew that once the Church was defeated, and all remaining resistance was crushed, each of them would turn against the other. Theirs was a unity at a common enemy.

For now, though, the Church had to fall. Fódlan had stagnated under their thumb. She’d heard the stories before: scientific advancements grinding to a halt by order of the Church, all records of experiments and observations vanishing without a trace. Certain avenues of study were prohibited by the Church, all in an effort to maintain the status quo in Fódlan. They were adamant on ensuring that Crests remained the sole source of power, that they could continue controlling Fódlan’s future and this was not something that could stand.

“Everything alright, Edie?” Dorothea asked by her side, concerned. “You’re looking rather intense.”

“Everything is fine, Dorothea,” she said, smoothening her expression. “I was just thinking about some things.”

Right. Now was not the time for such thoughts. She needed to concentrate on the battle that would come at dawn the next day.

“You’re nervous too, huh?” she asked with a sympathetic tone. “Try to relax a little. You’ve been planning this out for more than two weeks already.”

The last-minute changes to the conduct of the battle had thrown her initial plans into disarray, but she had managed to adapt. She had studied the old battles, identified the weaknesses that had led to the Empire’s defeat in the War of the Eagle and Lion. Though she still played to the Empire’s strengths, she was determined not to repeat the mistakes of her ancestors.

Yes, she would emerge victorious in this upcoming battle. She would achieve victory here, no matter the cost. She had to.

“Thanks, Dorothea,” she said with a faint smile.

“No problem, Edie.” Dorothea returned the gesture, before turning back and talking to Petra and Bernadetta, who was visibly nervous about having to participate in the battle.

Well, at least she wasn’t hiding in her room anymore. For all that she distanced herself from others, she was willing to fight for the Black Eagles despite her discomfort.

Morale was high. Ferdinand was excited, even it was simply because he wanted to engage in yet another silly competition with her. She spied him together with Caspar, the pair of them having been talking with each other to pass the time ever since leaving the Monastery for Gronder Field.

Even Linhardt hadn’t tried weaselling away from this to take a nap, for once. For some time now, he had been paying more attention in class. Hubert had reported him to be becoming particularly close with Flayn, which was a cause for concern.

She wasn’t naïve enough to think that Flayn and Seteth wouldn’t side with Rhea when they were finally ready to rebel against the Church. So long as they didn’t interfere with her plans and relinquished the Church’s hold over Fódlan, she didn’t really care what they did, but she needed to steel herself in preparation for striking them down if necessary. She hoped that when the time finally came, Linhardt’s loyalty would be to the Adrestian Empire, rather than with his fascination over her Crest.

Before she knew it, they had already reached Gronder Field. As they passed by the fort at Kyphon’s Stand, the three Houses parted, making their way to their respective starting locations led by their Professors. There, they would set up camp for the night, and be ready for the battle at dawn.

“Everything is prepared, Hubert?” she confirmed once more.

“The carts are all loaded with supplies, Lady Edelgard,” he said, bowing slightly. “We have brought enough to last two nights.”

“Good. Set up camp, and see to it that they are distributed among the soldiers.”

“At once, my Lady.”

As he departed from her side, she was left alone once more, and had the time to think.

Swift and decisive was how she planned to play it. She had fielded an abundance of troops, hoping to crush the other Houses decisively. She didn’t know what Claude and Dimitri had planned for, but if they were hoping to drag out the battle, they had another thing coming for them.

Light cavalry wasn’t traditionally seen as the mainstay of Adrestian tactics, but she had chosen to devote more resources to procuring their services. Her plan was simple: the Lions would need time to cross the river. The Deer wouldn’t be able to win in a direct battle. She would act quickly, rushing not at the fort, but directly toward the Deer, and seize a decisive victory. Even if they weren’t completely eliminated from the battle, their morale would be crushed, and their numbers would be too few to stop her.

Once that was done, she would adapt her plans. If the Lions still hadn’t fully made it across the river, she would take the fort. If they did, however, she would prepare for a fighting retreat, and attempt to separate the Faerghus cavalry from their foot-soldiers to take them out separately.

There were risks, she was certain. But if she was to achieve an absolute victory, she needed to be willing to make the sacrifices.

-o-o-o-

As dawn broke, Byleth made his way to the edge of the Airmid Overlook, observing as the assembled forces down in the field below broke camp and returned their supplies for battle and transport.

It was odd, watching them from up here. In all his lives that he had been part of the Monastery, never once had he been a mere observer in this battle. Even later on, when Gronder Field became the site of a brutal three-way battle, he’d always been in the thick of action.

“You’re up early,” Jeralt greeted, both of them the only ones looking down upon the students and soldiers below. “Can’t sleep?”

“Could say the same for you,” Byleth said. “Excited about how your House will do?”

“I wouldn’t call it excitement, exactly,” he said slowly. “But yes, I’m curious as to how they’ll perform today.”

Byleth understood that well. Call it sentiment, but he’d been reflecting on his past with more frequency as of late. This life had been one surprise after another, and he honestly couldn’t say how this battle would go, despite having kept some tabs on how each House planned to conduct themselves during the battle.

…without their knowledge, of course.

“Who do you think will win?” Jeralt asked.

Wordlessly, Byleth handed over the rolled-up piece of parchment he’d kept by his belt, and handed it over to Jeralt.

“What’s this?” he asked curiously, unfolding it. Byleth finally turned his gaze away from the field below, and saw to his immense satisfaction that Jeralt looked dumbfounded at its contents.

“Byleth,” he said slowly, lowering the scroll slightly to stare him in the eyes. “How in the Goddess’ name did you get your hands on this?”

He shrugged. “Bribed Anna with fifty gold. Turns out, she can do almost anything once you hand over the money.”

The normally stoic man stared at him for a moment longer – in surprise or disbelief, Byleth didn’t know – before he began shaking his head, and chuckled loudly.

“I don’t know whether to be impressed that you thought of this, or worried that I somehow raised you to be this way,” he said, still smiling faintly as he studied its contents. “A _complete _list of everything each House requisitioned from both the Battalion Guild and Quartermaster?”

“It’s not as impressive as you think it is. I’m pretty sure that the students would have sent someone to try and spy on the vendors to figure out what they were doing. They could have just as easily done what I did.” Byleth shrugged. “Credit to Claude, though. He’d sent Raphael to loudly request for two hundred foot-soldiers when Sylvain and Petra were in earshot, before quietly returning a day later to change his request to fifty of a mix of Wyvern Riders and Pegasus Knights.”

“Anna told you that too?”

“Like I said, she’s interested in the gold.”

“Well, this does shake things up a little,” Jeralt muttered, still staring at the list. “Edelgard’s expecting this to be over quickly, Dimitri’s taking a standard Faerghus approach of a slow but steady push, and Claude…”

“Seems to have a mix of everything,” Byleth finished. “Honestly? It’s just as likely that he makes a tactical blunder as he does a move of sheer brilliance with what he has.”

Even now, he couldn’t quite figure out what Claude had in mind. He favoured aerial units, probably due to his experiences in Almyra, but his ground numbers were noticeably fewer than those of his rivals. In terms of supplies, he had enough to last a few days – more than Edelgard, at least – but then oddly enough had requested for some obscure requisitions that didn’t fit with a hit-and-run plan, as the Alliance had come to do against the Empire during their fighting retreat to Derdriu in the wars he’d fought.

“We’ll have to wait and see, I suppose,” Jeralt said, looking over the scroll once more. “There’s another hour until it begins.”

The battle had yet to start, but down on the field below, there was activity aplenty. Troop lines were being organised, soldiers were being rallied, and all his former students looked more excited than he remembered them being for this battle.

Somehow, it both warmed and ached him to see his former students from up here, knowing just how much potential each of them had, and yet the inevitability of the war that would come. Hopefully, with everything that he’d already set up, the start of the war could be delayed for as long as possible.

For now, though, he would observe from above. He didn’t know who would emerge triumphant: Edelgard, with her conviction and willingness to sacrifice whatever it took to earn victory? Dimitri, with his bravery and courage? Claude, with his tactical genius? And then there were the other students in their Houses, each of them so entirely unique, with skills and talents so utterly irreplaceable.

Seteth and Rhea were now approaching, alongside the heralds and bannermen of the Church, and he knew it would soon be time for the mock battle.

As the cries of eagles soaring through the blue skies spread across the entirety of Gronder, Byleth readied himself to watch the battle unfold. Regardless of outcome, he knew he would be proud of them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Losing motivation to write this again, hopefully it'll pick back up soon...
> 
> Played around on Inkarnate to try and plan the chapter, figured I may as well find a way to dump it in the text (cough cough a big no-no for proper writers... good thing I'm not one)
> 
> Edit (21/04): Please don't read too much into the absence of a plan for the Blue Lions, I'm just too lazy to put it into writing and characterising their interactions properly (haven't actually played their route yet...) ;_;
> 
> (Edit 7/4: Somehow made yet another spin-off piece to this AU while trying to get words to stick together, hope you check it out!)


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